


cold desert

by gidgit



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society (Homestuck), M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 08:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12813936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gidgit/pseuds/gidgit
Summary: Curiosity killed the cat.It probably just wasn't as good at being nosy as Dave is.





	1. Chapter 1

tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

TT: After long and thoughtful consideration following our most recent conversation, I believe I have arrived at a final conclusion.  
TT: My final conclusion is the same as my first impression - what you're doing is really a flagrant violation of any semblance of a basic respect for privacy that exists in decent, civilized society.  
TT: Also, it's just a weird thing to do.  
TT: Weird being your term, of course. I'm sure I could find a far more appropriate and all-around encompassing turn of phrase in the DSM.  
TT: I know you don't care for it, but I must say that "obsession" and "compulsion" certainly come to mind.  
TT: Dave?  
TT: ...  
TT: You're doing it right now, aren't you.  
TT: Sigh.  
TT: Just try not to get arrested.

tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

\--

You peek through the blinds for hours, keeping a careful lookout for any movement, any signs of life. It hasn’t happened yet, but it will happen eventually. You’re certain about this – no less than 80% so, perhaps even 85%. This is a mystery that you _know_ is a mystery, even if no one else does, and damned if you’ll see it anything less than completely fucking solved.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you’re pretty sure there’s someone living in your neighbor’s house.

Well… wind that back a little. You already know there’s _someone_ living in your neighbor’s house, i.e. your neighbor. He’s just some guy. Or… troll. Troll guy. He’s fairly young, keeps to himself. You only ever see him when he leaves for work in the morning and again when he comes home at night. You’re not even sure what his name is. It’s not exactly a homeowner’s association and community barbecue type of neighborhood.

The point is, he’s not who you’re talking about. There’s someone else living in that house, and most intriguingly, they’re doing it in secret.

This is the kinda shit that you are all over. Moth to the flame, baby. Chronic gambler to the poisonous embrace of the blackjack table. This is your _jam_.

The evidence is a bit piecemeal, you’ll admit it, but when taken all together it’s mightily convincing. There was the first time you noticed something strange – curtains fluttering behind a second-floor window, just as neighbor troll guy left for work in the morning. There was the time a deliveryman left a package on the porch in the middle of the day, and when you glanced outside fifteen minutes later it was gone. There’s that stray cat that comes around every afternoon, like it knows its next meal is gonna be tossed out the back door at the same time each day.

And, look – are there other possible explanations for all that? Could it be a fan blowing some curtains around, a junkie stealing some shit off the porch, and a random cat on a repetitive daily stroll? Sure. It _could_ be.

But it’s totally not.

There is a fugitive living in your neighbor’s house. Or, like, a secret agent, or something. …Or a sex slave. That one’s not as fun to imagine.

It’s someone, though. And you’re going to figure out who it is.

There! A twitch of a first-floor window curtain, just as that mangy fucking cat comes walking up along the side of the house. Jesus, you totally nailed this.

That phrasing was kind of unfortunate.

Shit.

The point remains! You are absolutely fucking right about this.

You keep your eyes glued to the house next door, face pressed flush against the window you’re spying through, but nothing else happens. The cat reappears a short while later, squeezing through a gap in the fence with its tail twitching occasionally behind it. You try to determine if it’s any fatter than before, but the results are inconclusive.

They’re good, this secret person of unknown gender, age, and species living on the low in your neighbor’s pad. They’re pretty goddamn good.

You’re going to be better.

\--

You’ve established a kind of survival camp at the window facing the other house. First you dragged a chair over, because standing/squatting for hours on end started to feel like developing arthritis in your knees in real time. Then came the snacks, because a man’s gotta get his high cholesterol nosh on. Next was a flashlight for when it got dark, a pillow for when your ass got sore, and binoculars just because you can’t believe there’s been a pair of fucking binoculars in your house this whole time. You learn something new every day.

With the development of Camp Dave came a redoubling of your sleuthing efforts. You realized you’ve missed hours of opportunity by only watching the house while your neighbor’s been away at work – it’s easier to attribute suspicious movement and activity to the stranger in the house while your neighbor’s not there, but there _have_ to be some signs of cohabitation when the two of them are in there together, too. Maybe you’ll overhear a snippet of loud conversation, a burst of laughter. You crack the window in front of you so you can listen, and take a step closer to making this a round-the-clock vigil.

Rose thinks you’re crazy, but that hasn’t concerned you very much for years now. It seems always to be the fate of the righteous, to endure the painful lash of skepticism and doubt from those closest to them. You’re really going to enjoy triumphantly shoving her nose in it when you prove yourself right.

Although… it is taking just a smidge longer than you thought it would. All those long six days ago, when you first began to suspect something – someone – strange was afoot, dozens of scenarios for how the saga would ultimately play out popped into your head. You never considered that sitting around waiting for so long would be one of them.

That’s just your lot in life, you suppose. The endless toil of the constantly vigilant. The eternal struggle for truth, the everlasting mission of those in service of the light. It is not yours to say how long you must till this infertile earth; it is only yours to shove your hands in that dirt and keep fucking digging, you know? Dig like a coal miner desperate to feed his family for another week on the back of a dying industry. Dig like a fucking grave robber in search of ancient boons to spirit off to speculators in the West. Dig like –

You’re so caught up in similes that you almost fucking miss it when it happens.

A dark shape pelts across your neighbor’s backyard, heading for the far fence. You jump out of your seat, knocking over an empty bottle of apple juice in your haste.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, nose against the windowpane.

They move quickly, but they have to stop when they reach the fence. They cast a look over their shoulder – _he_ , you think, when a stray beam of moonlight lands on his face, you think they might be a he; he’s got the telltale gray pallor of a troll, and he’s young, much younger than your neighbor – turning to spare a final glance at the house he’s just fled. He then promptly jumps onto the fence, scrambles up and over, and disappears from view as suddenly as he arrived.

“Holy _shit_ ,” you repeat, dumbfounded. Then, “Wait – what the fuck am I doing?”

And with that you’re sprinting down the hall, jumping the flight of stairs, slamming out the back door and hurtling across the length of your own yard.

By the time you pull yourself up to the top of your own fence, he’s long gone. You huff a disappointed sigh, scanning around for any trace of him in the dark to no avail. You stay there for a few moments, considering everything that just happened in a flabbergasted kind of haze. Then you lower yourself to the ground and trudge back inside.

There’s not just a secret person living next door. There’s a secret _kid_ living next door.

Your mind reels with new possibilities. Maybe this is a custody battle gone completely off the rails. Or maybe he has debilitating social anxiety. …You guess the sex slave thing is technically still on the table. You shudder and push that thought to the background again.

There’s a prickly, unpleasant sensation creeping up your arms and legs, making its slow but steady way to your core. A lot of the ironic elation and plucky fun of this little venture has evaporated, all with this one revelation. You just don’t see a lot of ways that the ‘neighbor hiding kid in basement’ storyline turns out particularly well for anyone involved.

Not to mention some _other_ uncomfortable parallels you could draw to this situation.

You realize your heart is beating faster at the same time the shadows in the hallway start creeping up on you. Gotta get yourself under control, here. No good reason to freak out yet. This is what you wanted, after all. What good mystery doesn’t have a few unexpected bumps in the road; doesn’t seem to take a slightly personal turn for the mystery solver himself? It’s all fairly standard, if not a touch cliché.

You take a deep breath, and the shadows recede.

When you move into the kitchen, the clock on the microwave blinks the time at you in blocky, bright green numbers. Nine-thirty at night. Where the hell is that kid going?

You wonder if he’s just sneaking out for the night, or whether he’s making a bona fide run for it. You think it’s probably the former – he didn’t take any bags with him or anything like that. But why take the risk of leaving at all, after the pains they’ve gone through to keep him out of sight?

Every mental retread of the facts unearths more questions with precious few answers. It takes you twenty minutes of contemplation, plus a glass of apple juice and some microwaved popcorn, to realize there’s one person you know of who might be able to shed some light.

And if he snuck out through the back, chances are good he’ll return that way too.

You’re out the back door and across the yard again, this time hopping the farthest fence. Your street is on the very edge of the developed part of your neighborhood, and beyond your backyard is the beginning of a scrubby little patch of forest. A semblance of privacy, you recall, was an important aspect of the decision to settle in this location. Old leaves and pine needles crunch under your shoes when you land on the other side. You hope the kid didn’t already come home while you were in the house.

You lean against the fence for another half hour or so before your legs start to cramp; after that you find a nearby tree with a decent-sized, low-hanging branch and opt to climb that instead, settling in with your back to the trunk. You do a few trial runs of what you might say to him when he arrives – “Hey, my name’s – no stop screaming, I’m not here to kill you,” and “Howdy neighbor, how’s the moonlit stroll, also are you a victim of trafficking,” – before you decide that you’re better off the cuff, anyway.

You’re out there long enough that you start to wonder if you aren’t being a bit hasty here – a little careless, perhaps, not to mention somewhat invasive – which is kind of a new experience for you. Usually your poorly considered plans progress quickly enough that you don’t have time for second thoughts. Man, what if he’s not a victim at all? What if _he’s_ the danger? He could be some kind of genuine psychopath, leaving for the night just to KILL AGAIN. That would be a bummer.

You end up getting a bit lost in the fantasy of it all, so when you hear the telltale crunch of leaves under approaching feet, it takes a mighty effort not to fall out of the tree and break your neck. He’s coming from the left – walking along your far neighbor’s fence, then your own, before finally reaching the one bordering his yard. You slide slowly off your branch, taking care to be as noiseless as possible. There’s a small crackle of pine needles beneath you, but he’s making enough sound with his own heavy steps that he fails to overhear it.

Gauging age can be a bit of a crapshoot, but if you had to guess you’d say he’s probably in the same range as you, mid- to late-teens. He’s kinda scrawny for a troll, an impression reinforced in part by the oversized black sweater he’s wearing; his horns, in contrast, seem somewhat undersized, two candy corn nubs poking out of a thicket of black hair. He looks a lot like your neighbor, actually. You don’t know the logistics behind that one – you’re pretty sure trolls have some funky thing going on about a lack of true biological parents, but the topic seems boring and a little gross, so you always just sort of tune it out.

He’s got a hand on the fence, ready to start pulling himself up and over, so if you’re gonna do this thing you’ve gotta do it now. You really should’ve tried harder to prepare for this part, honestly. What the hell are you supposed to say? He’s halfway up now, just say _anything_ –

You can’t think of anything, so you just loudly clear your throat instead.

“Holy _fucking_ –," He basically falls off the fence, and you bite your tongue to keep from laughing at him. It wouldn’t be the greatest first impression. Not that what you’re doing now is the greatest first impression either, but… laughing would still probably be worse. He scrambles desperately to regain his balance, his sneakers slipping and sliding on the woodsy detritus underfoot, whirling around so his back hits the fence behind him with a heavy thud. When his eyes land on you, they’re wide and panicked. “…shit,” he finally exhales.

“Sup,” you say, master of improvisation that you are.

There’s a pregnant pause where it seems like he’s waiting for something – for you to say something else, or maybe just to attack him. You guess you can forgive him for that. You are ambushing him in the dark woods behind his house in the middle of the night. Something inside you distantly recognizes that it’s not a great visual.

You decide to wait for him to realize that you aren’t a creep. Or… that you’re not a creep who’s planning on physically assaulting him, anyway. After a few moments he swallows, producing an almost cartoonish _gulp_. You have to try fairly hard not to laugh at that, either.

“Who the fuck are you?” he finally asks, and you can hear the dryness in his throat, turning his voice into a rasp.

“Dave,” you reply. His eyebrows knit together in what you can only describe as a kind of irritated incredulity. “Uh, Strider. I live next door,” you clarify, pointing in the direction of your house.

He waits again, his expression morphing from one of shock and fear to something more like confusion and wary anger. “What the fuck do you want?” he asks, and there’s more body to his voice this time.

“Good question,” you accidentally admit out loud, and his eyebrows shoot halfway up his forehead. You’re in a bit of a nosedive here, but it’s alright, there’s time to salvage things. You clear your throat again. “I saw you sneaking out earlier, so,” – wow, that’s probably not gonna do it – “just figured I’d, uh. See what’s goin’ on. With you, or whatever.”

Another pause. “Are you here to kill me?” he asks, in his fullest, most disbelieving voice yet.

“What, no. I’m not –," Pull it together, man. “Why would I be here to kill you? And even if I were why would I be talking to you, I would’ve just done it when your back was turned.”

“That’s incredibly reassuring.”

Yeah, you probably could’ve left that part out. “Listen, I’m really not some kind of freak. I just noticed that someone was hiding in my neighbor’s house – uh, your house, I guess – and I’ve been trying to figure out who it is –,"

“You’ve been _spying_ on me?” he asks, loud and accusatory.

This is a train wreck. “No, I’m not – how could I be spying on _you_ , I didn’t even know who _you_ were until right now, I was just –,"

“Okay, shut up.” He pushes himself away from the fence, pointing a threatening finger in your face. All his apprehension from before is long gone; he’s just really, really pissed now. “ _You_ listen, Dave Strider from next door. You’re gonna forget everything you saw, everything you heard, and everything that happened tonight.” He takes another step in your direction. “You’re gonna _stop spying on my house_ and mind your own fucking business. You’re not gonna speak to me again, you’re not gonna fucking sneak up on me in the woods, and you are never, _ever_ going to approach Kankri as long as we’re living here.”

“Is Kankri –," _my neighbor’s name,_ you’re planning on saying, but he cuts you off with a violent hand gesture.

“And just in case it isn’t abundantly fucking clear, you’re going to do all of this, exactly as I said, or I am going to _fucking. Kill. You._ ” He leaves the threat hanging in the air between you, giving you an absolutely ferocious look. Then he turns on his heel, jumps the fence, and vanishes.

Well.

That could’ve gone better.

Also, maybe he really is some kind of psycho? Although you guess that could just be a standard reaction to someone learning that they’re being… spied on and followed… even if that’s _totally_ mischaracterizing what you were trying to accomplish here. …Kind of mischaracterizing. You probably need to workshop some non-stalker explanations for this behavior.

Still, as you climb your own fence and return to the house, there’s one prevailing sentiment in your mind: this is, hands down, the most interesting thing that’s happened to you in years.

You need to know more about this fucking kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from the kings of leon song of the same name. where doing it guys.............,,,


	2. Chapter 2

turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering  tentacleTherapist [TT]

TG: hope youre ready for some serious tunes right now  
TG: hope youre fucking prepared to pick up the beat im about to lay down  
TG: grab your oven mitts cause that shits hot to the touch  
TG: keep your microscopes close and your graduated cylinders closer because were dropping straight motherfucking science today  
TG: its one chord and one line  
TG: played at quarter speed for ten goddamn hours  
TG: and i call this scintillating masterpiece:  
TG: i fucking told you so  
TT: Gracious as ever, I see.  
TG: you know it  
TT: You told me so about what, exactly.  
TT: I am simply inundated with possibilities.  
TT: Could it be that Tupac Shakur and The Notorious B.I.G. have emerged from their tropical island hideaway to campaign for office on a platform of income equality, universal healthcare, and social justice?  
TG: well yeah thats obviously gonna happen  
TG: but not until the great orange evil that will necessitate their intervention rises in the west come on rose keep up  
TG: and dont be coy you know what the fuck im talking about  
TT: I'm assuming your crusade to wantonly interfere in the lives of those in your community paid dividends?  
TG: bingo  
TT: Men, women, and gender non-conforming folk everywhere conducting themselves in good faith amongst their neighbors will weep to hear it.  
TG: would it kill you to be happy for me  
TT: ...  
TG: hahaha jk i know it would  
TT: Putting aside the urge to dig in there, tantalizing though it may be, I wearily ask - what happened?  
TG: secret troll kid next door  
TG: talked to him and everything  
TT: Really??  
TT: What did he say?  
TG: oh look whos interested all of a sudden  
TG: now that there are no more nays to say  
TG: wow fancy that  
TT: Just shut up and tell me what he said.  
TG: idk not a whole lot  
TG: sorta standard fare  
TG: who are you what do you want if i see you again ill kill you blah blah  
TT: Wait, what?  
TG: you know how it is  
TT: I'm not sure that I do...  
TT: Was he serious?  
TG: i mean not too serious  
TG: pretty sure i could take him  
TT: That isn't really what I meant.  
TG: yeah i know but i dont wanna get all hung up on it like you do  
TT: Of course.  
TT: How foolish of me to think something like that may be worth more than a passing moment's consideration.  
TG: my thoughts exactly  
TG: okay listen i gotta go  
TG: have to plan the next move  
TT: Sorry, I think I'm having difficulty again. Perhaps you can assist me.  
TT: I just don't see how staying away from someone requires any sort of "plan" other than staying away from them.  
TG: well obviously im not gonna do that  
TT: May I ask why not?  
TG: sure but youre not gonna like the answer so how bout we just mutually chalk this one up to stylistic differences  
TT: Right.  
TT: You know I'd be remiss if I didn't take the opportunity to tell you what an incredibly awful idea I think this is.  
TG: id start to wonder if it was really you if you didnt  
TG: start to wonder if maybe youd been TAKEN  
TG: ring ring dont worry liam neesons on the case  
TT: Dave.  
TT: That isn't funny.  
TG: sorry  
TT: Will you please be careful?  
TG: yeah you got it  
TG: alright well seeya  
TT: One last thing, before you go.  
TG: ?  
TT: In the unlikely event that your neighbor make good on his threat, could you at least give me a rough geographical region where it might behoove me to check for obituaries?  
TT: Even a hemisphere would do.  
TT: Just for next of kin notifications and the like.  
TG: yeah  
TG: no  
TG: nice try tho

turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering  tentacleTherapist [TT]

\--

You spend the next two days kicking some options around.

In your room, you think about staying the course. You can continue to monitor the situation next door from a distance, collecting clues and drawing conclusions from everything you witness within the safety of your own home. It’s the most cautious choice, other than dropping this completely; even with the kid suspicious of you now, you think you’d run a pretty low risk of getting caught. It’s also the slowest and least eventful option. It took you about a week to learn everything you know now – how long would you have to keep up the game this time? Another week? _Two_ weeks? You aren’t optimistic about staying patient for so long.

In the kitchen, over a glass of juice and a pop tart, you consider turning the matter over to people who actually know what they’re doing. There’s so much you don’t know here, so many possibilities still up in the air. While you’re shitting around, wasting time like an idiot, the fact remains that something very, very dark could be going on next door. If you called the police, or child protective services at an absolute minimum, you could rest assured that any potentially abusive situations would come to an immediate end. This is the most responsible choice.

It’s also one you dismiss just about out of hand.

Blame your upbringing if you want, but something about getting the system involved without _knowing_ it’s the right call makes your stomach squirm. These are institutions that exist as a last resort for the truly desperate, not ones you necessarily trust at the outset. And as much relief as it would bring you if it ended up being the right call, if it’s the _wrong_ call… you could destroy their lives, especially if he’s hiding for some other reason. It’s not fair or right that the stakes are so high, but you didn’t design the system to work the way it does. You aren’t doing it unless you’re sure.

In the bathroom, you think about doing what Rose and the kid want you to do, which is forgetting about this and moving on with your life.

Hm.

No.

You flush and leave the room, considering that one settled.

In the living room, you lay on the couch, throwing crumpled up pieces of paper at the ceiling. Spy, call the police, ignore it. Spy, call the police, or just fucking ignore it.

All your options suck.

This sucks.

Honestly, if you could just talk to him again, you could explain yourself. And even if you couldn’t explain yourself, you could at least suss out whether you need to get the cops involved. If you could just…

You sit up abruptly, turning to the window facing the neighbor’s house. It’s mid-morning. Kankri – if that is indeed his real name – would’ve left for work by now.

…Have _one more_ conversation with him…

You jump off the couch and walk out the front door, down the sidewalk, up the walkway to his house, and onto the porch. You knock four times on the front door before you remember that the kid threatened to kill you if he ever saw you again.

…You take a few steps back just in case he comes out swinging an axe or something.

Turns out you shouldn’t have bothered, because he doesn’t come out at all. You wait another minute or so, then knock again. If there’s one thing you’re sure of, it’s that he’s home.

A few minutes later, still nothing. You exhale a frustrated breath through your teeth. Why is everyone always so averse to doing things the easy, logical way? You think people spend too much time internalizing bad television, which makes them act as antithetically to survival and frankly as dumb as possible in any halfway unusual situation. Why no, infuriatingly naïve young protagonist, you _shouldn’t_ lie to the handsome antihero when he asks you about the various Strange Occurrences around your small town lately, you should _tell him_ what the fuck you know so you can pool your information and not stumble around in a haze of miscommunication for half a season like a couple of stupid assholes. But no, everyone acts like the fucking oblivious tool who gets murdered near the end of the first act of a story to move the plot along. Bunch of fuckin’ amateurs.

At this point you’ve probably spent close to a quarter of an hour fuming on the front porch, so you figure it’s time to speed things up. What’s next, what’s the move… you wander off the porch, giving the house a good look. Two stories of living space with a third floor attic, same as yours. At least six full-length first floor windows, plus a smaller bathroom window and any additional ones out back that you might not know of. Backyard’s fenced in, though. Another six windows at least on the second floor, and you count two of them as accessible via a strip of roofing over the porch... _including_ the window you first saw those curtains move behind last week, the one that started this whole thing…

You allow yourself a small, self-satisfied grin. Then you hop back on the porch, climb the railing, and successfully heave yourself onto the roof on your second attempt to pull yourself up.

You vehemently deny that your first attempt in any way dislocated a small section of rain gutter from the house. As far as you’re concerned, you found it like that.

Well, you’re on the neighbor’s roof now. Better make this part quick, or the lousy daytime snoops around here will have a field day. You walk up to the window you’ve been watching for a week and give it a firm, loud knock.

Nothing after thirty seconds. This is getting fucking ridiculous. You turn to scan the street below, but it remains mercifully deserted. That’s good; this would be sorta hard to explain to passersby –

You turn to the window again, but instead of glass and curtain all you see is a toothy snarl and gray hands reaching for your throat.

They get you around the collar of your shirt, and with a surprised yelp you’re yanked forward, tumbling through the window and across the hard floor.

The fall fucking hurts. “Ow,” you complain, and you hear a window slam, the _swish_ of curtains being drawn.

“ _What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”_ Yeah, you hear that too.

You sit up, rubbing ruefully at the side of your head. “I knocked on the door first,” you say, just a touch pouty. Whatever, your head kills and your ass is fucking sore too.

“ _And I didn’t fucking answer, did I!_ That’s usually the end of it for people who aren’t _fucking lunatics!”_

“God, stop yelling, I already have a headache.”

He makes a singular, outraged sound without saying anything else, which gives you time to look at him. In the daylight you notice the pronounced bags under his eyes, clear as fresh bruises. He isn’t armed, which is fortunate for you.

“What did I say,” he grits between his teeth, “what did I _tell you_ was going to fucking happen if I saw your ugly face again?”

That’s less fortunate. “Rude,” you say, firstly. As for the rest of it, “And, oh, I didn’t realize you were serious about that.”

Absolute silence falls for a moment. He might have a stroke, honestly. “Get out,” he mutters, jaw clenched as though it’s been wired shut.

“What?” you say, still sitting on the floor.

“I said _get the fuck out_ you idiot, unless you actually, literally want me to end your fucking life!”

And, really, you’ve had about enough of that. “Listen dude,” you say, holding out a ‘calm the hell down’ hand, “you keep threatening to kill me, I’m gonna start thinkin' you’re a douchebag.”

“ _I already think you’re a douchebag!”_

“Stop _yelling_.”

He makes another furious sound, and you think he may have literally yanked some hair out of his head this time. But he doesn’t do anything else. He doesn’t run out of the room or leap to attack you. He doesn’t reach for a phone.

“You’re not gonna call the cops, are you,” you say. It’s more of a confirmation of something you already know to be true than a genuine question.

His expression changes, shifting from an exaggerated caricature of anger to something quieter and more wary. You’re sure that tells you something – you’re just not sure what it is yet.

“That’s what normal people do, you know. When there’s someone in their house, and they don’t want them to be there. They call the cops.” You watch him carefully for any sign of movement, any hint of a concealed weapon. “You’re not gonna do that, though.”

“And why not,” he growls, several decibels lower than the last time he spoke.

“You tell me.”

“Fuck off.”

Nice.

“So,” you say, pushing yourself to your feet. You think you’re in his bedroom – there’s a bed, for one thing, plus a few weird posters of, like, John Cusack and Will Smith movies on the walls. Your internal counter marks down another point in favor of this kid turning out to be some kind of serial killer. You turn to face him after finishing your fairly obvious onceover of his room. “What’s your deal, man?”

“My deal,” he repeats incredulously.

“Yeah. Like, do you need help or something?”

He blinks a few times, then digs a finger in his ear like he’s having a hard time hearing you. “Excuse me?”

“Y’know, with all this,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the room around you, “and that,” you add, gesturing in the general direction of where the backyard would be, “are you like, okay?”

“I –,” He starts, then stops, then glances around his room like maybe this is some kind of hidden camera show. He looks completely and totally dumbfounded, to such a severe degree that he apparently no longer has the bandwidth to look pissed off at the same time. You’re enjoying the facial journeys more than you probably should. “What?” he finally says, a bit helplessly.

“Dude.” You mean, you’re trying to be gentle about this, but goddamn. “I’m making sure this isn’t a hostage situation, okay. That what’s his troll isn’t some massive creep who doesn’t let you leave or whatever, and I guess just more generally that there’s no coercion, or abuse, or weird sex stuff –,”

“No, oh my god,” he cuts you off, waving his hand emphatically. “No, no, please stop, _Jesus_.”

Well, that seems pretty cut and dry. Still, though… “And that’s not just Stockholm syndrome talking, or something like that.”

“I think if it was, then by definition I’d be the wrong person to ask, but –,” He shakes his head abruptly. “You know what, it doesn’t matter – no, that is not what’s happening here.”

“Okay,” you say. You wait a second to see if that mollifies you. “And you’re _sure_ there’s no pervy funny business going on –,”

“Oh my flipping Christ, I am completely fucking sure.”

“Okay,” you say again. The kid seems a bit dazed by the turn the conversation has taken, and the two of you lapse into a distracted silence. Come to think of it, you’re getting tired of calling him ‘kid’ in your head all the time. It just feels old-timey and awkward. You guess you could call him ‘dude’ from now on… or, ‘man’… ‘insufferable prick’… ‘bro’ – except, ha, no, not that one.

Ha.

“Hey,” you say, and he stops staring at some vague spot on the wall to look at you, “you got a name?”

A beat. “Karkat,” he mumbles, looking away from you again. That was… easier than you expected. He still seems sort of preoccupied – maybe he’s just too overwhelmed to remember to be a pain in the ass right now.

“How long have you lived here?” Strike while the iron’s hot, and all that.

He shrugs. “Few years,” he says.

“Holy shit,” you say, and he gives you a quizzical look. “Nothing, I just – I noticed you a _week_ ago.” God, how embarrassing is that.

The kid – Karkat – shrugs again. “S’alright. I never noticed you.”

Um. Pardon?

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Karkat’s eyes shoot up, going momentarily wide with surprise before narrowing suspiciously. “You _never noticed me?”_ you demand.

“No…” he says, wary again.

That strikes you speechless for a few seconds, your jaw flapping with no sound coming out. “How the fuck is that possible,” you say, once you’ve gathered enough of your wits, “I haven’t been living there secretly or any shit like that. I walk in and out the front door almost every fucking day! This is outrageous.”

“What do you want from me, I didn’t know you were there,” he counters, growing heated again. “Unlike _some people_ I don’t spend all my time spying on the neighbors!”

“You could land a fucking plane on the middle ground between those two things. I’m serious, there’s road kill out there with more situational awareness than you. You are not at all on the level, man.”

“Oh shut the fuck up,” he snaps at you. Mostly it just makes you want to laugh.

Another handful of quiet moments pass. When it starts to feel like one of you needs to say something, you release a quiet breath and ask, “So what’s with all the secrecy, anyway?”

He gives you a hard look. “I think you need to leave,” he replies. Ah, well. Looks like his guard’s back up. He doesn’t scream it like before, yet it undeniably carries more weight this time than all the others combined.

You raise both hands in front of you in a show of surrender. “Yeah, fine.” Some surprise registers on his face – you guess he was expecting more of a fight – but you made significant progress today. Sometimes you gotta know when to leave it. You take a step towards the window, then turn to him again. “Did you mean the window, or the door, or…”

“The door,” he grits between his teeth. In context it definitely was not as dumb a question as he’s trying to make it seem, but whatever.

“Right. Obviously.” You take a step towards the door now, but then you hesitate. Does he just want you walking off through his house…? Karkat sighs dramatically and leaves the room, which you interpret as your cue to follow him.

Through the hallway, down the stairs… the house looks like some fairly normal people inhabit it, at any rate. Not that you don’t believe him – it’s just habit, observing your surroundings.

Your failure to notice the troll secretly living next door for years notwithstanding, clearly.

Everything looks relatively clean and well cared for – the carpet, the furniture. There are a ton of books everywhere, filling shelves and sitting in neat piles on the floor. Portraits of landscapes from faraway places adorn a few of the walls. Something you don’t see are any pictures of the trolls themselves – family portraits, childhood candid shots, that sort of thing. It would strike you as odd, but to be fair it’s not like there are any pictures of you hanging up in your house either.

You reach the front door, which he unlocks and opens for you. You turn to face him once you’re out on the porch. Honestly, you’re a little surprised he didn’t slam the door the moment you stepped outside. “Well, uh. Guess I’ll see you around?”

He looks at you in what you think is largely resignation. “Why do I feel like that’s probably true,” he responds flatly. Then he shuts the door.

It is, you think as you walk back to your house, at the very least an improvement over death threats.

\--

Your third and fourth conversations with Karkat take place a few days later, and they happen on the same day.

More accurately, they happen on the same night.

It’s been a week since your first encounter with him, and you have a sneaking suspicion that the circumstances of that meeting amount to something other than pure, dumb luck. And so, right around nine-thirty at night, you start to watch the neighbor’s yard.

You’re only there for ten minutes when you see him, darting towards the back fence again.

Honestly, how the fuck did you miss this for so long. Jesus Christ.

You’re ready for him this time. You hustle out to your own yard, pulling yourself up the fence. With your feet on the central rail, you can stand with your head and shoulders clear of the top – this is exactly what you’re doing when he makes his way past your yard, head down and eyes on the ground ahead of him.

“Sup,” you say, thoroughly enjoying the wordless squawk and approximately ten-foot leap into the air that you elicit in response. He even makes a throwing motion at your head, although there’s nothing in his hand.

“Will you _stop fucking doing that!”_

You grin and shrug.

“Shit-eating fucking –,” the sentence sort of dissolves into an unintelligible string of mumbled curses after that, as he paces in a small circle, rubbing at his temples. After a while he stops, shooting you with a resentful glare. “What the hell do you want now?”

“Is this how it’s always gonna be between us, with the hostility at the beginning of every conversation? Can’t we just pick up in the marginally more hospitable place where we left off.”

“If you had any _fragment_ of a notion of how to approach someone _fucking normally_ –,”

You wave your hands disinterestedly. You’ve already heard this one. “Whatever, I don’t really care.” He groans loudly, which you ignore. “So where ya goin’?”

“None of your business.”

“Hm,” you say thoughtfully, mulling over your next question. “Why do you have to sneak out?”

He makes that narrow-eyed, suspicious face that you’re becoming rapidly familiar with. “Same answer,” he mutters, and he starts walking again.

“Oh come on,” you say, and he stops with another groan. “I thought you said this wasn’t some whole coercive deal.”

“It’s _not_ ,” he protests, spinning to face you again.

“Then how come you can’t leave?”

“I _can_ –,” He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath through the nose. “Listen, Dave?” he says, in a much more restrained tone, “I appreciate the concern, okay. But I’m fine, this is fine, everything’s fine. Now please, leave me the fuck alone.” With that he keeps walking, leaves crunching under his feet as he goes.

You can feel the dissatisfied look pulling at your features as you watch him, but it doesn’t seem like there’s much else to be done this time. You reluctantly hop off the fence and return to the house. Maybe you should start bringing snacks out with you when you do that, like for bribing a mistrustful wild animal. You wonder what trolls even like to eat. Unless it’s popcorn or Doritos you’re pretty much screwed.

You’re not even sure what you spend the next couple of hours doing – horseshitting around on the internet, mostly – but whatever it is, it successfully diverts your attention from the ongoing saga of Karkat: Mystery Neighbor. You kind of forget about him altogether for the night.

He certainly isn’t on your mind when you hear someone slowly opening your back door.

You freeze, listening to the absolute silence in your house. You’re just paranoid; you could’ve imagined the creak –

Nope, not paranoid. You definitely hear someone taking slow, cautious steps around your kitchen. This is actually happening. But you’re not going to panic.

You haven’t done that in a long, long time.

You cast around the room for a weapon and locate one immediately. More than one, truthfully – there are shitty swords strewn pretty much everywhere around here. Not so shitty that they can’t poke a few holes in some breaking and entering dickhead, of course, which you’re thankful for as you wrap your hand around one of the hilts and make your slow, silent way down the hall. You’re also thankful for your habit of rarely turning a fucking light on once the sun goes down; makes all this clandestine sneaking around much easier.

You catch sight of the intruder as you creep to the kitchen doorway. It’s just a shape in the darkness, poking around the counters and the table. Whoever it is doesn’t look that naturally gifted at burgling, which is the second knock against them tonight. The first was the shitbrained decision to pick your house to begin with.

They have no idea that you’re in the room until you’re on top of them, at which point it’s far too late. You grab them by the arm and fling them into the far wall – you hear an _oof_ as their back hits plaster, but you give them no time to recover, laying a forearm across their throat and pinning them there. They struggle until they feel the tip of your sword press against their navel, and then they go still.

That’s when you finally look at their face.

“ _Karkat?”_ you splutter.

“Holy fucking shit,” he says, by way of greeting. There’s a certain dazed hoarseness to his voice.

You have no idea what’s happening right now. “You broke into my house,” you state, kind of stupidly.

“Give me a minute to come up with something along the lines of turnabout being fair play,” he retorts. His wits are returning to him, and he squirms ineffectually against the arm at his throat while swatting at the sword still poking him in the belly. “And will you get that fucking thing away from me, Jesus. Who even uses a _sword_ , what is this, medieval fucking times?”

You release him and take a few steps back. You’re still so fucking confused. “It’s not really turnabout,” you say.

He’s focused on smoothing his rumpled sweater, and doesn’t even look up when he says, “What?”

“It’s not turnabout. I never broke into your house,” you explain.

He laughs harshly. “Give me a break, that’s like the _only_ thing you didn’t do.”

“I knocked.”

“On my window. From my roof.” He points a menacing finger at you. “You are not gonna win the invasion of privacy battle here, so stop trying.”

“Okay,” you reply automatically. He finishes straightening himself out and pushes away from the wall. He doesn’t say anything; he just seems to be scoping the place out, like he was doing before you caught him. “What’re you doing here?” you finally ask.

“Good question,” he mumbles, and you feel your eyebrows knit together.

He must notice your increasing wariness, because he throws his arms wide in outrage. “Oh, so, what? You’re allowed to be invasively curious but I’m not?”

“Curious about what?”

“ _Your_ deal!” God, he must be loud just, all the fucking time. He slips into it so naturally. “What’s _your_ deal, Dave Strider? You live in this abandoned fucking house, prancing around with _swords_ like some kind of deranged renaissance enthusiast –,”

You glance at the sword in your hand, then turn and chuck it down the hallway. It lands with a distant clatter. “What sword?” you ask innocently.

He gives you a look that could probably blister paint.

“You _spied_ on me, you _attacked_ me –,”

“You broke in!”

“You won’t leave me alone,” he accuses.

“Yeah, like you’re doing an awesome job leaving me alone right now. Maybe you could give me some tips,” you retort.

“ _That’s not the same!”_

“That’s convenient.”

He drags an infuriated hand over his face. “Okay, fine. I’ll just ask you some questions then, for the sake of _turnabout_.” You’re not even sure that the two of you are using that word correctly anymore – like, does it have the same meaning outside of the idiom, or – but he’s pressing forward before you can think about it too much. “Who lives here?”

“Me.”

“No one else?”

“No.”

“What about your human guardian or whatever?”

“What about him?”

His eyes narrow as you realize your mistake. He was probably just asking _if_ you had one. “So there is someone else here,” he says, thinking he’s caught you in a lie.

“No,” you say.

“But you just said –,”

“He’s gone. On business. Long term.”

He’s sizing you up, trying to judge whether you’re telling the truth. Apparently he can’t quite come to a decision, because next he asks, “How long?”

“Next question.”

“That’s not –,”

“Hey,” you interrupt, a real edge to your voice now, “why don’t you tell me a little more about Kankri? Don’t think we ever gave that subject the detailed examination it probably fucking deserves. Wanna get out the fine-toothed comb?”

It’s a stalemate, the two of you staring hard at each other through the darkness. “Fine,” he relents unhappily. You don’t have much time to be relieved. “What about the sunglasses?”

“They’re cool,” you say, aware for the first time in a long time of the slight weight of the frames on your face.

“You wear them all the fucking time. In the fucking dark,” he says, gesturing around the dark kitchen.

“They’re cool in the dark, too.”

He’s quiet for a moment. When he speaks, that comes quietly, too, “I think you’re full of shit.”

“Hey,” you say, as he takes a couple of steps towards the door, “hold on –,”

“No, you know what, this has been a really delightful, completely insane fucking detour in my life, so thanks for that, but I’m gonna go.” He keeps marching in the direction of the exit until you snag him by the arm. “ _Get off_.”

You let go, putting your hands up in a hopefully non-threatening manner. “Alright, just… what do you wanna know?”

“I don’t know!” Well, he’s back to yelling again, but he’s also stopped moving towards the door. “I don’t even fucking know, okay. I think you’re _dangerous_. I think there’s a solid chance you’re out of your fucking mind. I don’t know what you want from me, if all this bullshit is just cover for something – I don’t know, _else_. This is so…” A nervous, humorless laugh bubbles up from his chest and he trails off, pacing in a circle around your kitchen.

“I don’t want anything from you,” you say, and he laughs again. He’s pretty committed to freaking the fuck out right now, and you’re not sure that anything you have to say would convince him to do otherwise. You try to think of something anyway; what was the last thing he asked you…

“They’re from a friend,” you say, and this time he stops, looking at you uncomprehendingly. “The sunglasses,” you clarify. “A friend gave them to me.”

There’s a long pause where he chews over whether he’s interested in engaging with you again. “What friend,” he finally grits out.

“His name was John.”

“Was?”

“Is, I guess. He’s probably still out there. I dunno. We lost contact a little while back.”

He looks a lot like someone doing something against their better judgment, which you try not to be offended by. “What happened?”

“I dunno,” you repeat. He gives you a skeptical look. “I really don’t,” you say honestly. “Just stopped answering one day.”

He doesn’t really react to that, which is okay. You don’t know how to react to it either. “I guess I lied, a little bit,” you say, and he tenses. “The first time we talked, when I said I wasn’t some kind of freak.”

After a moment, he relaxes, just by a few degrees. “Yeah, no shit,” he mutters.

“To be fair,” you say, because at some point you just can’t help yourself, “I think everything about you is pretty freaky, too.”

He flips you off, and you allow yourself a small grin.

Another brief silence falls between you, although this one doesn’t feel as charged as some of the ones that have come before. Karkat eventually breaks it, saying, “I really should get going.”

“Okay,” you reply.

“We don’t…” He stops, clears his throat, and then tries again, “We don’t have to know every sordid detail of each other’s lives. Especially not like… immediately.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “Although there are still some really basic things that I don’t know.”

“Oh my god, like what?”

He’s about to get all fired up again, which is the exact opposite of what you want. You hold out a ‘chill’ hand. “Your last name, for one.”

He hesitates. Eventually, he says, “…Vantas.”

Karkat Vantas.

Your secret neighbor.

Huh.

“So…” he says, and for the first time you sense a little awkwardness. “’Til next time?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, that sounds okay.”

He has his hand on the doorknob when you think of something else. “Hey – one last thing, before you go?”

“ _What?”_ Loud and pissy. Those are definitely just his default settings, you see that quite clearly now.

“…Do you use Pesterchum?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is definitely NOT gonna be the standard for how frequently this gets updated, so dont get used to it, but... lol im excited, so here you go.


	3. Chapter 3

turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering  tentacleTherapist [TT]

TG: k im back  
TG: what were you saying  
TT: You should consider occasionally closing your bedroom window.  
TT: That, or occasionally cleaning up the various piles of food detritus no doubt rotting all over your house.  
TT: You might find that it decreases the truly staggering number of instances that you encounter wild animals picking through your personal effects.  
TG: no listen  
TG: im telling you these crows fuckin have it out for me  
TG: there is no dissuading them from being on my jock any less then 100% of the time youre just gonna have to trust me  
TT: Be that as it may, I still feel like you could stand to tidy up a bit.  
TG: tell me how you manage to give me shit about this while located approximately a billion miles from my room  
TG: that was rhetorical dont actually tell me  
TT: Fine, but you'll miss out on the wonderful joke I was going to make about the smell.  
TG: cool  
TG: no but what were you saying before all the zoological nightmare that is my life stuff went down  
TT: I was just meandering towards asking you how the ongoing saga with your neighbor is developing.  
TT: Karkat, right?  
TG: oh  
TG: yeah  
TG: shrug  
TG: idk i guess thats all pretty much cooling off  
TT: That's it?  
TG: what  
TT: You went on and on about this. You employed what any objective observer would consider fairly drastic measures to find out what, if anything, was happening with him.  
TT: Now you're just over it?  
TG: no?  
TG: i mean i dunno  
TG: i got his chumhandle and we talked a few times  
TT: And that's all.  
TG: what do you want from me i thought you werent on board with this shit to begin with  
TT: I wasn't necessarily on board with your methods. Although it would seem that they ultimately proved effective, to my surprise and admitted chagrin.  
TT: In fact, the sheer magnitude of their effectiveness makes this new reticence on your part all the more intriguing.  
TG: i already told you he said there wasnt anything weird goin on and he didnt need any help  
TG: so whatever im backing off  
TT: You continue to utterly confound me.  
TT: I mean it. Every time I think I have you pegged, you toss another wrench into my painstakingly drawn conclusions.  
TT: It is a truly maddening conundrum.  
TG: oh god  
TT: If this Karkat orders you to leave him alone and threatens to kill you for not complying, you respond by continuing the pursuit by any and all means.  
TG: pursuit wtf are you talking about  
TT: If, on the other hand, he offers you a moonlit invitation to get to know him - well, then clearly you need to back off.  
TG: moonlit invitation oh my god  
TG: please dont write wizard fanfic about me and my neighbor sweet jesus  
TT: And so, steadfastly ignoring your petulant interjections, I ask you: What the fuck?  
TG: what am i supposed to do exactly  
TG: idk if this came thru but those first couple of meetings were pretty goddamn intense  
TG: feels kinda ridiculous to go from that to like hey bro wanna meet up at fucking waffle house or some shit  
TT: So you want to take him out to breakfast?  
TG: what no  
TG: im just sayin i sorta boxed myself in here with the wild theatrics and it feels bizarre to suddenly start acting all casual about it  
TT: I'm trying to discern your motivations here. Are you saying that, in a perfect world where you didn't already make a spectacle of yourself, you'd attempt to initiate casual - dare I say, friendly - relations with him?  
TG: probably wouldnt say it like that but yeah i guess  
TG: oh shit  
TG: shit hes messaging me right now  
TT: It would appear fate is handing you an opportunity, Dave.  
TG: fuck are you talking about  
TT: You should ask him out.  
TG: WHAT  
TT: My God you're sensitive.  
TT: You should ask him to _hang_ out, is that better?  
TG: ...  
TT: What does he like to do for fun?  
TG: damn i dont know  
TG: forgot to ask him that when we were playing 20 fucking questions last time  
TT: Sigh.  
TT: How about this - ask him what he's doing now.  
TG: ...  
TG: bout to watch a movie  
TT: What movie?  
TG: la vie en rose  
TT: Huh.  
TG: what  
TT: Nothing. Just, good taste.  
TG: gag  
TT: Ask him if he wants to watch it with you.  
TG: what why  
TG: i dont care about that shit  
TT: It's not about whether you care, it's about the gesture.  
TT: Showing some interest in his interests. Making it look like you weren't just curious about whatever his secrets might be, but about him too.  
TG: ...  
TT: You really don't have to keep doing that.  
TG: huh  
TT: What?  
TG: nothin  
TG: just  
TG: he said ok  
TT: And there you have it, another round of social interaction successfully brokered by yours truly.  
TT: You're fortunate I don't charge for this.  
TT: Yet.  
TG: hey hold on a god damn minute  
TG: what the fuck do i do now  
TT: I think you watch a movie with your neighbor.  
TG: thats not what i fuckin mean  
TT: Dave, this part's pretty simple. You want to be his friend. You should be able to figure it out.  
TT: Just, don't kiss him.  
TT: Or do, if you think the moment's right. You want to try not to pull that trigger too soon, though.  
TG: WTF  
TT: Good luck.  
TT: ;)

tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering  turntechGodhead [TG]

\--

There are a series of knocks at your back door.

The first round is soft – timid, even; something that might not have registered if you weren’t actively listening for the sound. The second round, coming only moments later, is much more forceful, shaking the door in its frame with each pound of the fist. You picture Karkat annoyed by his own initial hesitation and immediately resolving to prove that, no, he is in fact COMPLETELY SURE ABOUT DOING THIS, and it makes it kind of hard not to open the door already laughing at him.

You must not do a thorough job of concealing your amusement, because as soon as he sees you his surly expression sours further. “What,” he demands, though you’re sure he already knows the gist of it.

You shrug, playing it cool. “You _do_ know how to knock,” you say, opening the door wider in invitation.

“Oh, haha,” he snaps as he walks in. “Yeah, if you didn’t answer I was just gonna put a brick through the window and climb in. That’s how human etiquette works, right.”

“Nah,” you say, casually drawling it out, “you gotta punch your way through the glass, dude. Barehanded. It’s all part of displaying your raw strength and determination to whoever you’re trying to impress.”

“Who the fuck says I’m trying to impress you?”

You hum noncommittally, turning to lead him deeper into the house. He makes an irritated sound as he nonetheless follows behind you, and you grin.

When you reach the living room, however, he stops. “Uh…” he says, taking half a step backwards.

That’s when you realize it’s been a long, long time since you’ve considered what your living space might look like to third party eyes.

Read: you’ve never in your life considered what your living space might look like to third party eyes.

“Oh, yeah, let me just –,” You clear your throat and lurch forward, scooping up an armful of swords scattered across the surface of the coffee table – which, admittedly, is a bit of a misnomer after a useful lifetime spent holding nothing but fantastically awful swords. You guess it’s more fitting to call it, like, the shitty weapon table now, but… you kick a couple more swords out of the way as you clear a path to the closet in the far corner of the room, trying not to think about any of that horseshit too much since none of it actually fucking matters.

“Sorry, forgot about spring cleaning this year,” you joke, balancing the pile of swords in one arm as you reach out to open the closet door with the other –

An avalanche of mannequins – a few of them in one piece, most of them dismembered in a creative assortment of ways – comes tumbling out just as you remember why you haven’t put anything in this closet for the past couple of years. By the time they’re done falling, you’re basically up to your knees in severed mannequin anatomy.

There’s a long pause.

“So that’s where all this shit went,” you try, by way of humorous explanation. The attempt is pretty weak in your opinion.

One mannequin head with a particularly acute sense of comedic timing is still rolling across the floor, coming to an impeccable – and quite frankly, improbable – stop right at Karkat’s feet. He blinks down at it mutely for the moment; you, on the other hand, resign yourself to the inevitable forthcoming realization that he should run screaming from your house as soon as physically possible.

Finally, he tears his gaze from the mannequin head. “You are such a fucking psycho,” he mutters, before stepping over the head and into the room.

Well. You guess at this point there’s no need to keep up the cleaning charade. You drop the swords on top of the spilled mannequin parts and resolve to forget about the lot of it, heading for the couch instead. Karkat’s poking around the television across the room, which gives you time to pry a stray sword out of the cushion and hurl it into the hallway just as he turns to look at you.

“Where’s your DVD player?” he asks, declining to comment any further on the veritable fuckton of bladed weaponry around the place.

“What’s a DVD player?”

His eyes go wide with shock – this is easily more upsetting to him than the swords and mannequins combined. “Holy shit, are you serious?”

“No, dude, I’m fucking with you,” you answer, and his face goes all surly again. “But seriously, I don’t have one.”

“Well, what the hell, Dave?” he complains, reaching into the drawstring bag he brought with him and pulling out – you guessed it – a DVD case. “How are we supposed to watch this?”

“Uh, I don’t know. By not living a life constrained by the outdated technology of five to seven years ago?” His face tells you he’s unimpressed by that response. “We can just torrent it or something.”

“But I already have the –,” He cuts himself off with a laborious sigh. “Never mind, I can go grab mine from the house.”

“Wait, just – hang on a second,” you say, already out in the hall. “Don’t leave,” you add, poking your head back into the room. He huffs and throws his arms up, which you suppose means that he’ll reluctantly honor your request. If he left now, you think as you dart up the stairs, you’re not sure you’d be able to get him to come back.

A few minutes later you return with another armful of crap. “Laptop,” you announce, distracting Karkat from where he’s currently poking at the severed mannequin head with one of your many discarded swords. He drops it hurriedly, probably worried that you’ll get mad at him for touching it, but you don’t really give a shit. “Plays DVDs.”

“We’re gonna watch it on a thirteen-inch screen when there’s a TV right there?”

Man, he is one tough customer. Not to mention he apparently has very little faith in your ability to improvise. “No,” you say, untangling a long, black wire from the snarled mess of your laptop charger. “HDMI cord.”

Evidently he can’t think of anything to complain about there. You go about connecting the computer to the television, whistling at him sharply when you’re done. He gives you a startled look, and you point at the DVD case and mime catching it. He tosses it over and you pop the disc in, taking a brief moment to brace yourself before hitting play. Honestly, this movie sounds, like… not at all in your usual wheelhouse. To put it mildly.

It’s just about the gesture, like Rose said. Showing some interest in him outside of the mystery neighbor dynamic. You settle on the couch just as Marion Cotillard… pretty much dies on stage while performing, within the first minute or so? Oh god.

It’s a gesture that Karkat better fucking appreciate, you think a bit sourly.

An hour later, you realize he isn’t appreciating it very much at all.

Neither of you has spoken since the movie started, which – whatever. It’s not like movies exist just to get talked over while you’re watching them. Even still, you’re not really following what’s going on; you half-heartedly try to keep up with the subtitles, but you’re frequently distracted on account of not really caring. You mean, you’re sure Édith Piaf had an interesting, tragic life or whatever, but goddamn…

That’s when you hear it – a strange, snuffling kind of sound. It’s only there for a moment, and then it fades. Was it part of the movie? You guess it could’ve been background noise – but then you hear it again. It sounds like… snoring.

You look at Karkat, and realize he’s passed the fuck out on your couch.

“Dude!” you protest, delivering a firm kick to his thigh.

“’M up, I’m –,” He jumps awake, looking around your living room in a semi-panic before apparently remembering where he is. “Wuz happ’nin’?”

“You’re fucking asleep, is what!”

“Am not,” he says, literally in the middle of wiping drool off his chin.

“Un-fucking-believable. How long have you been out?”

“I don’t know, not too long…” He rubs his eyes and focuses on the screen. “Is she not blind anymore?”

“Oh my fucking god.” He’s been sleeping the whole damn time. “Obviously she wasn’t gonna stay blind, she wasn’t blind when she was an old lady at the beginning.”

“Oh yeah…”

The circles under his eyes are even darker than they were before his little nap, though this sleepy fog he’s in has softened some of the harder lines around the set of his mouth and between his brows. He’s not quite as ornery as usual, either. It makes it hard to be genuinely annoyed with him.

Doesn’t make your ego any less bruised, though. “Listen, if you don’t wanna hang out, that’s fine,” you say, keeping your tone carefully neutral as your fingers pick at a fraying spot of fabric on the arm of the couch. “Don’t feel like you have to humor me.”

“What, no. No, that’s…” You sneak a glance at him from the corner of your eye, grateful not for the first time that your shades prevent it from being obvious. He looks confused and a little embarrassed, scratching absently at his elbow while looking pretty much anywhere other than directly at you. “I don’t. Uh, feel that way.”

“Okay.” You don’t really believe it, but fine. You’re not gonna prostrate yourself too much here. You have purely ironic appearances to maintain, after all. “Late night, or somethin’?” you ask, trying to give him an easier out.

“No. Well, actually yeah, but – no more than usual.” He switches from scratching his elbow to rubbing his neck. “It’s not that. This is just, not really up my alley,” he says, gesturing at the TV.

You stare at him blankly. “It’s your movie.”

“Yeah. Except… no.”

You stay quiet, thinking about what the hell _that_ might mean.

Apparently your silence makes him antsy, because after a few seconds he’s throwing his arms out wide and saying, "It’s Kankri’s, okay. It was the first one I saw laying around when you asked me what I was planning on watching. He’s all into that kind of – I don’t know, sophisticated highbrow _cinema_.”

The little affect he puts on ‘cinema’ makes you snort, and he shoots you an aggrieved look. “Sorry,” you say, “I just remembered someone protesting the idea that they were trying to impress me recently, totally unrelated –,”

“Oh, shut the hell up,” he mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest unhappily and sinking an inch deeper into the couch. Looks like the cute sleepy fog’s just about worn off, then.

Or, uh. _Agreeable_ sleepy fog. Yeah.

…The fuck is that about.

“So,” you say, because the best thing to do about mental slips like that is to blitz through ‘em like they never happened; just hook up the mules and really drive the plow, except uh, maybe something that sounds a little less Freudian than that instead, _shit_ , “what was the real answer?”

“Huh?”

“What were you actually gonna watch?” you ask, and you can’t suppress the slow grin spreading across your face.

His face grows darker as blood rushes to his cheeks, and he mumbles something you can’t make out.

“Speak up, son.”

“ _50 First Dates_ , okay!” he basically screeches.

An unexpected bark of laughter tears from your throat. “The Sandler one?”

“Yes! Alright, yes! The Sandler one, you got a problem with that?”

“No,” you say, between laughs, “I mean it’s trash, but –,”

“ _You’re trash!”_

He has to wait for you to stop laughing this time, stewing in his rapidly increasing fury all the while. “Well,” you say, coughing a little bit as you rein yourself back in, “go grab it.”

That definitely catches him off guard. “What?”

“Go get it. We’ll watch it,” you repeat.

A hesitation. “Why?” he asks, clearly suspicious.

“’Cause it’ll be fun. C’mon, dude, don’t get me all hot and hankerin’ for Sandler and then blue ball me.”

Another hesitation. “Fine,” he says. He reaches for the drawstring bag by his feet, then walks over to where your laptop is stationed by the television. “So, the thing is,” he starts to explain while rooting through the bag –

“Oh my god, did you already have it with you?” Irritated silence is the only response. “Do you just carry it with you wherever you go? Please, _please_ tell me you’re sneaking out at night for weekly _50 First Dates_ viewing parties with a group of local enthusiasts –,”

“ _Shut up_.”

“That’s not a no,” you say, dissolving in another fit of laughter as you duck the empty DVD case that’s subsequently hurled at your head.

Objectively speaking, there’s no doubt that _50 First Dates_ is a much, much shittier movie than _La Vie en Rose_. It should probably be illegal to sort them into the same overall category of ‘films’. But what can you say – there are way livelier discussions to be had concerning the feasibility of those dumb tapes Sandler starts making for Drew Barrymore, the extreme punchability of Rob Schneider’s stupid fucking face, and the perhaps underrated depth and breadth of Sean Astin’s acting prowess.

That isn’t your opinion, of course. You tend to think he consistently comes off as a bit of a tool and has mainly survived in the business by virtue of being Patty Duke’s kid, plus the fact that a lot of people have positive leftover associations from _The Goonies_. Karkat makes a pretty passionate case in his defense, though.

“I dunno,” you say, as you walk him to the back door a couple hours later, “I just don’t have any way of gauging whether Samwise was supposed to be played that way. I guess it could be faithful to the original text… honestly, I picked up _The Lord of the Rings_ once when I was like twelve, after I watched the first movie and found out Aragorn called himself Strider. I think I got twenty pages in before it gave me a headache and I put it down forever.”

“That’s fair. The book part, I mean – not how he played Sam, which you’re still completely wrong about,” Karkat clarifies.

“Right,” you say, in as haughty a tone as you can manage. “Listen, next time bring the whole trilogy over, and right around hour six you can try to look me in the eye and say he isn’t fuckin’ grating.”

He gives you a calculating look, going about it so deliberately that you have to resist the urge to shift uncomfortably under the weight of it.

“Fine,” he says. “Next time.” Then he’s out the door, heading for home.

You decide to ignore the nervous thrill cartwheeling through your gut as you shut the door behind him.

\--

Next time, you watch _The Fellowship of the Ring_. After that, _The Two Towers_ , and finally _The Return of the King_. Karkat never admits he was wrong, but he doesn’t have to. The truth is in his eyes, and it spells TOOL. All capitalized and everything.

Because he’s stubborn and doesn’t know how to gracefully accept defeat, he makes you watch _The Goonies_ next. The time after that, you go with _Rudy_ – that one ends up being more or less of a mutual decision, though.

It’s just so goddamn inspiring.

At that point you figure the Sean Astin fixation is getting a bit played out, so you start switching things up in earnest. Karkat – who you quickly learn is some kind of card-carrying shitty romcom aficionado – suggests _Legally Blonde_ , which you actually kind of love. Then he recommends _Clueless_ , which you absolutely despise.

“She ends up with her _brother!_ That’s not romantic, that’s a fucking horror show. That’s the prequel to _The Hills Have Eyes_ , man.”

“Okay, your species’ inexplicable hang-ups about that aside –,”

“No, oh my god, you have to stop with this –,”

“ _That aside_ ,” he says, utterly failing to stop, “they’re not even biologically related! Ex-stepbrother, Dave.”

“Wow that’s so weird, it’s almost like a major element of that description is motherfucking _brother_.”

You wrest control away for a little while afterwards, mercilessly subjecting him to _Zoolander, Click_ (“I thought you were a fan,” you explain through a big shit-eating grin) _,_ and _Paul Blart: Mall Cop 2_ in quick succession. He retaliates first with what you can only describe as a failed assassination attempt on his own DVD player (brought over from his house a few viewing sessions back) using a time-delayed Mentos trap set in a bottle of diet soda (it’s a long story), and second by insisting on watching _You, Me and Dupree_ and _Good Luck Chuck_ next, which comes to a regrettable halt mid-viewing on account of you standing in the middle of the living room promising to burn the house down around you if you have to hear another fucking second of it, Jesus nutcracking CHRIST.

Peace talks commence, and you both eventually agree to stop picking the worst movies you can think of just to piss the other one off. He picks _The Proposal_ and you pick _The Matrix_. He picks _Forgetting Sarah Marshall_ , which is easily one of Jason Segel’s greatest triumphs, and you pick _I, Robot_ , which you always thought was an underrated Will Smith entry. Karkat enthusiastically agrees when you air this opinion, settling onto the couch with a bag of popcorn in his lap.

And from there it just… keeps happening.

It starts to feel so normal that some days you forget exactly how you got here. You forget about the mystery, you forget about the commotion surrounding the circumstances of how you met. You don’t ask about his shit and he doesn’t ask about yours. You just hang out and fuck around like regular people. In fact, you find it increasingly likely that Karkat is simply becoming your friend.

There are other days, of course, when all that other stuff is harder to forget.

You’re standing in the kitchen, taking stock of the food you have left. It ends up being easy to keep track of – nothing in the refrigerator but ketchup, nothing in the cabinets but a box of spaghetti and a can of condensed tomato soup. You wrinkle your nose. You could technically make that last another day or two… like a loose interpretation of pasta with two whole varieties of tomato sauce…

You think about the last time you tried to manage with nothing but macaroni noodles and hot sauce, and decide it’s worth a trip to the grocery store.

You run upstairs and grab your grocery bag, which is pretty much just the biggest backpack you own. Fill that up and carry a few more bags in your hand, and you can bring home a decent haul in one trip.

You come thumping down the stairs, heading for the front door just as you hear a knock at the back.

That’ll be Karkat because, as you’re only now remembering, this is the time you told him to come over today when you made plans with him online last night.

Stupid lousy goddamn attention deficit fuckin’ bullcrap – “Hey what’s up,” you greet him as you open the door.

He takes a step inside, already searching through his bag. “So I thought we’d go with a legitimate classic,” he starts to explain, movie in hand when he finally looks up at you. His eyes are immediately drawn to your backpack and he stops himself. “Oh, uh – sorry, is it the wrong time?”

No, you just have the memory of a fucking goldfish, “No, it’s not the wrong time, I just lost track of – well, I was gonna head to the store real quick, got bupkis to eat around here –,”

“Oh! Okay.”

“I can go later though, it’s not a big deal –,”

“No that’s fine, I can come back tomorrow if you’re busy, it’s no problem.” He slings his bag over his shoulder and rubs his neck a little awkwardly. “I’ll message you later, then.”

“Yeah, okay.” This is where you’d ask him to come with you if he was a normal kid. Not that going to the store is a particularly grand adventure, but you’d still ask. Having some company on the walk might be nice, plus you wouldn’t feel like you were blowing him off, which is sort of exactly what you’re doing.

He’s not a normal kid, though.

If anything, getting to know him better has only made this part weirder. You still don’t know what his deal is, and now you actually feel strange asking about it. As long as he insists that he doesn’t need your help – and he does continue to insist on that being the case – then you’ll respect the lines he’s drawn around his crazy secret life. You’re curious, but… you don’t want to genuinely upset him. Because, you know. He might be your friend and all.

But you’re also uncomfortable with treating him differently – handling him with kid gloves when you know, if the roles were reversed, that you’d hate it if he did the same thing to you.

Because he’s supposed to be your friend, maybe.

It’s a difficult position to find yourself in.

…Ah, fuck it.

“Hey,” you say, stopping him as he steps back out the door. He gives you a quizzical look over his shoulder. “Wanna come with?”

His eyes go a bit wide, and he glances at his house before looking back at you. “Um… I dunno…”

Oh god, you just made him more uncomfortable by asking. You should’ve stuck with the kid gloves. What’s wrong with kid gloves? Nothing is what, they sound perfectly goddamn pleasant to everyone but neurotic assholes like you who are always trying to liven things up with endless drama and general shenanigans –

“Yeah, I’ll go,” Karkat says.

“Huh?”

“Sure. Why not.”

…Huh? “Can you really do that?”

He puffs up like an angry cat. Or, like, a pissed off blowfish. Some kind of rankled animal, who even cares. “I can do whatever I want,” he snarls.

You put your hands up in surrender. “Yeah, man. Obviously. Right on.”

He gives you a withering look, adjusting the strings of the bag hanging off his shoulders. “Well?” he demands, when you don’t say anything after a few seconds.

“Shit, alright. Let’s go,” you say with a shrug. You turn and take a few steps through the kitchen before it becomes apparent that Karkat isn’t following you. When you look at him again, you find a measure of uncertainty replacing the purely irritated expression of a moment before. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he says, too quickly. “Just, uh… would you mind if we went…” He gestures out the back door, towards the fence.

“Right, I always forget you’re some kind of freak.” He makes a noise of protest and you put your hands up again. “Kidding, kidding… I only forget that on the rarest of occasions.”

You make your way to the fence with Karkat grumbling and muttering behind you, trying to fight down a smile. You don’t want to antagonize him _too_ much. Once both of you are up and over you start walking, only for him to hesitate again.

“Now what,” you say, not quite managing to keep some of the impatience out of your voice.

“Sorry,” he says, too quickly again, which immediately makes you feel like a jerk, “can you, um – wait here a minute.” He’s on the move before you have a chance to respond, scrambling over the fence to his own backyard. You sigh, lean against the fence, and wait.

He’s back within a minute, and you notice that he’s changed his clothes, swapping his generic black sweater for a black zip up, the hood pulled low. “Pretty inconspicuous on a sunny, eighty degree day, dude,” you note, and he frowns. For the record, you don’t think he looks cute at all while doing it.

Just for the record.

“Is it too much?” he asks, self-consciously smoothing the hood down.

“S’fine as long as you don’t melt,” you say. He’s still frowning, fussing with the hood, and you reach out to tug on his sleeve. “Karkat, it’s fine. No one’s gonna bother you.”

He releases an exasperated breath, mumbles, “Fine,” and starts walking.

You come out of the woods a few streets over, far enough from both your houses that Karkat is seemingly comfortable continuing the rest of the journey via sidewalk. Well… maybe ‘comfortable’ is overstating it. He’s quiet for the duration of the walk, eyes darting around under his hood, keeping a wary lookout of your surroundings. He’s making you anxious, honestly, but you think it’d be a dick move to call him on it. The only reason he’s out here is because of you.

It’s with some sense of relief that you finally reach the grocery store. It’s a local establishment, kind of cramped and probably a bit dumpy by larger chain supermarket standards, but the owners are nice enough and the food is fresh. It also reflects the demographics of your neighborhood, serving human groceries right alongside more traditional troll cuisine. You never really took special note of that before, but now you find yourself grateful for it. It means there’s no reason for Karkat to stand out from the crowd.

Rather, it _would_ mean that if he weren’t acting like the shadiest motherfucker this side of the human-troll border. “Dude, you need to unclench a little bit. You’re giving me hypertension.”

He nearly drops the jar of some kind of grub sauce that he’s been inspecting for the past minute. Like you said, you don’t know a whole lot about authentic troll food, but from what you’ve gleaned over the years it seems like two-thirds of it is made out of some kind of grub or another. You think it’s for the best that you don’t know any more about it. “What?” he says, once he’s recovered.

“You’re ridiculously jumpy and you look sketchy as hell. Between that and you mean muggin’ everyone who comes within a ten-foot radius, people are gonna think you’re casing the joint. You’re not the only troll here, just relax.”

“It’s the trolls I’m fucking worried about,” he mutters without thinking, eyeing an elderly troll woman at the other end of the aisle suspiciously.

And that’s… interesting.

He realizes after a minor delay that he's given you too much information – you can practically see the alarms going off in his head, and he gives you an apprehensive look, clearly wondering if you noticed.

You did, in fact, notice. “What’s that mean?”

“Nothing, just a figure of speech,” he says hurriedly, picking up a package of some weird, expired-looking bread. “You need grubloaf?”

“No,” you say, not taking the bait on the subject change. This is the first new piece of information you’ve gotten on the mystery side of all this in some time, and your curiosity is firing up again in response, “What does that mean, you’re worried about trolls?” You thought he’d be nervous around _humans_ ; although, now that you’re thinking about it, you’re realizing that was always just an assumption on your part…

“ _Dave, drop it_ ,” he hisses, rounding on you. The old troll lady at the end of the aisle gives both of you a funny look, and Karkat takes a step back, cursing under his breath. After a moment she moves on, and he exhales. Then he pulls off his hood, turning to you like he’s proving a point. “See? I’m not worried about anything,” he says, setting the grubloaf down and marching away.

“Uh-huh,” you reply as you follow him. It should go without saying that you aren’t exactly convinced.

Once you’ve collected just about all you can manage to carry back home, you and Karkat go wait in the checkout line. The guy ahead of you in line is a troll, and you take note of the careful way Karkat ensures that you’re standing between the two of them at all times. You give him a shrewd look, and he elbows you sharply in the ribs.

The cashier starts ringing you up when it’s your turn, and you tuck the bags away in your backpack as he goes. You’re nearly finished paying when there’s a shout from behind you.

Karkat just about shits his pants, but all you do is groan.

“You think you can sneak in and out of here without me knowing?” a woman’s voice demands.

You turn to look at her, pulling out your best poker face. “Course not.”

“ _Mmhmm,_ ” she says, unimpressed. She’s another older woman – human this time, plump and good-natured in a way that must make her seem kindly to most customers. To you, she seems to enjoy nothing so much as being a great big pain in your ass. “Let me see that receipt.”

The cashier hands it over obligingly, and she scans it with a disapproving frown. “Pop tarts, chips, _Gushers_ –,” she gives you a light flick on the forehead, and you rub at the spot with your sleeve. “What have I told you about coming in here and buying nothing but junk?”

“I got apple juice,” you argue, and she flicks you again.

“Wait right here,” she orders. Then she disappears.

She’s back in a few minutes, arms full of food. “Fruits. Vegetables. _Real protein_ ,” she says, as she packs it all into a brown paper bag.

“Muffins?” you ask, as she lays a package from the fresh bakery aisle on top.

“Just because you’re so charming,” she says. It comes out a grumble, but she gives herself away with a wink and a small smile. She finishes filling the bag and turns a questioning eye on Karkat. “Who’s your friend?” she asks.

Karkat’s eyes go wide, his mouth opening and shutting wordlessly. “Street urchin from an Alternian precinct,” you say quickly. The woman raises an eyebrow at you, and Karkat gives you an indignant look. “Doesn’t speak a word of English.”

“Mmhmm,” she says again. She presses the bag into Karkat’s arms, not ringing any of it up. “Do me a favor and make sure this boy isn’t eating garbage _all_ the time, okay?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Karkat says uncertainly.

She gives you another unimpressed look. “Not a word of English, huh,” she says, and Karkat’s face flushes.

“I’m a very good teacher,” you say lightly, pulling Karkat along by the elbow as you head for the exit. “Okay thanks see you next time!”

“Drink some water!” she calls after you.

“The hell was that,” Karkat demands, once you’re out on the street again.

“One of the owners,” you explain. You adjust the straps on your backpack – it’s pretty goddamn heavy now. “She’s been doing that shit since I was ten years old.”

Karkat eyes the bag in his arms. “That’s… nice,” he eventually says.

You shrug. “I guess.”

You walk a couple of blocks, assuming you’re in for the same quiet journey you had on the way to the store. Then Karkat asks, “You’ve been buying food for yourself since you were ten?”

“Longer than that,” you mumble. His eyebrows shoot up, and you suddenly feel like you’ve indulged in some oversharing. “You don’t want other trolls to see you,” you counter, and he scoffs unconvincingly.

“You’re so convinced that I’m the weirder one between the two of us,” he says. “Well let me tell you, I’m not so fucking sure.”

You hum in response, content to neither confirm nor deny the charge.

“So what did you have in mind for today, movie-wise,” you say, when silence falls between you again.

Karkat immediately perks up at that. “ _Titanic_ ,” he says excitedly.

You groan loudly.

“What’s your fucking problem with that?” he asks, clearly outraged.

“You’re really gonna make me deal with James Cameron’s bullshit right now?”

“Bullshit nothing! It’s a fucking classic!”

“It’s like three and a half hours of fucking grade-A cow manure, man.”

“It’s three and a half hours of transformative fucking cinematic history, is what it is.”

“Alright, fine. But we’re gonna do a compare and contrast of his work tomorrow.” He gives you a mistrustful look. “That’s right, man. Gird your fucking troll loins for three hours of Blue Furry Shit: The Movie.”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

“If you get to pick _Titanic_ then I get to pick _Avatar_. It’s only fair.”

“No, you’re just picking it to fuck with me! This is not at all in the spirit of our truce!”

You argue about it the rest of the way to your house. In the end, you acquiesce to Karkat’s point of view – not so much because he makes a compelling argument, but because you don’t really want to watch _Avatar_ either. It’s fun to pull his chain about it, though.

Only when you’re unpacking the groceries in your kitchen, with Karkat setting up for the movie in the living room, do you realize that you both forgot to take the backwoods way home. You hesitate, wondering if you should mention it to him. You could press him more on why it’s even necessary while you’re at it; ask again why he’s worried about being seen by members of his own species.

When you walk into the living room, he turns to look at you. “What?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Nothing,” you say, “I got popcorn.” You raise the bag, giving it a shake.

“Awesome,” he says, sitting on the couch. The title card for the movie flashes on the screen, spelling _TITANIC_ in big formal lettering.

“Yeah,” you agree, taking a seat next to him. “Awesome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sean astin kinda grating, y/n? feel free to leave opinions in comments :P


	4. Chapter 4

carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling  turntechGodhead [TG]

CG: HEY QUICK QUESTION.  
TG: shoot  
CG: I'M GOING ON A DVD RUN SOON, IS THERE ANYTHING I SHOULD PICK UP?  
CG: AND BEFORE YOU SAY IT I'VE ALREADY GOT YOU DOWN FOR THE NEW IT.  
TG: aw yeah man fuck that clown  
TG: wait is that out already  
CG: I DON'T KNOW, I'LL GET IT IF IT IS.  
TG: hahaha get IT  
TG: like you cant even talk about the movie itself without playing into the whole thing what a good idea  
CG: REMEMBER HOW I SAID THIS WAS A QUICK QUESTION.  
TG: dude whats the rush  
TG: either way you gotta fire up the delorean and go back to when blockbuster fucking existed or however it is you rent dvds anymore  
TG: might as well shoot the shit with your good pal first  
CG: I AM SHOCKED AND AWED BY THE DEPTH OF YOUR SELF ABSORPTION, AS PER FUCKING USUAL.  
CG: MAYBE I DON'T HAVE TIME TO INDULGE YOUR FLAMING WINDMILL OF ETERNAL HORSESHIT TODAY. MAYBE I HAVE PLANS, DAVE.  
CG: PRIOR FUCKING COMMITMENTS THAT DON'T INVOLVE HAVING MY AURICULAR SPONGE CLOTS TALKED OUT OF MY SKULL BY SOME HUMAN SHITHEAD!!!  
TG: is this like a hypothetical tantrum or do you actually have plans  
CG: YEAH, I REALLY DO.  
TG: oh  
TG: well shit dont let me hold you up then ill talk to you later  
CG: IS THAT IT?  
TG: what  
CG: I JUST EXPECTED YOU TO  
CG: I DON'T KNOW  
CG: ASK MORE QUESTIONS I GUESS.  
TG: what do you mean what kind of questions would i ask  
TG: you got a thing and thats cool we can bullshit some other time  
CG: OH. OKAY.  
CG: COOL, THEN.  
TG: ...  
TG: still there huh  
CG: YEAH.  
CG: YOU'RE SORT OF FUCKING THIS UP IS ALL.  
TG: what how  
TG: what am i even doing  
TG: i am being perfectly amenable not to mention polite as fucking pie  
TG: so youre gonna have to fill me in  
CG: I JUST THOUGHT YOU'D MAKE A BIGGER DEAL ABOUT NOT KNOWING WHAT WAS GOING ON. LIKE YOU WOULD JUST GO ON AND ON ABOUT IT, AND I'D TELL YOU TO MIND YOUR BUSINESS WHICH YOU NEVER ACTUALLY DO, AND ULTIMATELY WE'D FIND OURSELVES AT AN IMPASSE. A TRUE ALTERNIAN STANDOFF.  
TG: whats the difference between a mexican standoff and an alternian one  
CG: ALTERNIAN STANDOFFS HAVE ZERO CHANCE OF SURVIVAL FOR ANY OF THE PARTICIPANTS.  
CG: OR WITNESSES, FOR THAT MATTER.  
TG: sounds about right  
CG: ANYWAY, IT WAS GONNA BE THIS WHOLE THING. AND THEN WHEN ALL HOPE SEEMED LOST, I WAS GOING TO MAGNANIMOUSLY ACQUIESCE INTO LETTING YOU COME WITH ME.  
CG: SO I GUESS MORE LIKE A MEXICAN STANDOFF IN THE END.  
TG: come with you where  
CG: UH  
CG: JUST THE MOVIES  
CG: WHICH I REALIZE ISN'T VERY ORIGINAL, OR EVEN MUCH OF A CHANGE IN PACE CONSIDERING WE SPEND PRETTY MUCH EVERY FUCKING DAY WASTING OUR TIME WATCHING MOVIES.  
CG: BUT THE NEW SPACE STRIFE MOVIE IS OUT, SO.  
TG: space strife  
CG: YEAH YOU KNOW WITH THE DEEP SPACE DOGFIGHTS AND THE LASER SWORDS.  
TG: oh right  
TG: for some reason i thought it was called something else  
CG: WHAT ELSE WOULD IT BE CALLED? THAT'S THE FUCKING NAME.  
TG: ...  
TG: yeah idk you must be right  
CG: SPOILER ALERT:  
CG: I ALREADY KNEW I WAS RIGHT.  
TG: but yeah sure ill go  
CG: YOU WILL?  
TG: yeah why not  
TG: is this where you always sneak off to at night  
CG: STOP NOTICING WHEN I LEAVE THE HOUSE.  
CG: ALSO YES THAT'S PRETTY MUCH IT.  
TG: ahahaha ok dude  
TG: just for the record im not giving up on the occasional 50 first dates viewing party idea tho  
CG: ASDJFKASDJKLFASKLJDFKL  
CG: JUST  
CG: MEET ME OUT BACK IN FIVE, BEFORE I CHANGE MY MIND.  
TG: gotcha

carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased trolling  turntechGodhead [TG]

\--

You’ve been waiting in the woods behind your house for ten minutes by the time Karkat’s head pops up above the fence.

“Startin’ to think you changed your mind and ditched me,” you joke as he heaves himself over.

His brows pull together, and he rubs his chin thoughtfully. “That would’ve been a good idea. I have to remember to do that next time.”

“Yeah right, dude,” you say, falling into step beside him as he starts walking, “Listen, you aren’t the first and in all likelihood will not be the last to fall victim to the Strider charm, okay. You find me completely irresistible and I’m here to reassure you that it’s through no fault of your own. I just have that effect on people.”

He scoffs dramatically. “The only thing that’s nigh irresistible is the urge to shove my fist down your wind chute every time you ramble off one of your pompous, self-obsessed soliloquys. You’re lucky I have such expert command over my more instinctive physical impulses.”

You make an interested sound, and he gives you a bit of a stink eye. “Care to elaborate on what other instinctive physical impulses you have when I’m around,” you say, laughing when he gives your shoulder a two-handed shove.

It’s entertaining, giving him shit like this. You like the way his face always flushes in response, darkening the gray skin of his cheeks. The first time you did it, it was just an offhand comment during one of your movie sessions; you were kind of worried as it left your mouth, yet another example of you failing to really think before you speak – but his reaction was so cliché prudish romcom protagonist that it quickly became one of your new favorite hobbies.

You mean, it’s not like you’re _actually_ flirting with him. It’s all about the ironies.

“Pretty tough resisting the impulse to just strangle you whenever I see your stupid face, now that you mention it,” he mutters, cheeks dusky, not quite meeting your eyes.

“Y’know, you’re a lot kinkier than I initially gave you credit for.”

“Oh my _god!”_

So, okay.

Maybe you’re flirting with him a little.

You know what, whatever. Could you spend another twenty thousand words dancing around it, having your typical straight pop culture teen gay crisis, wondering how exactly internalized homophobia has influenced your psyche, and all the fucking rest of it? Sure you could.

But consider this – you could also not do any of that bullshit, decide right off the bat that compulsory heterosexuality is a fucking prison (thank you, Rose), and spend all that time shamelessly flirting with the cute neighbor kid instead. It’s all beginners’ shit, anyway. Like, if he were the _girl_ next door, this would be so standard it would hardly even count. No big deal at all. It doesn’t fucking mean you’re in love with him.

“Hey, shitbucket, are you even listening to me?”

Whoops. “You were right in the middle of loudly bemoaning my idiocy not only in this specific moment, but also in life more generally.”

He gives you that trademark suspicious look of his before grumbling something about a lucky guess. You exchange a stoic mental fist bump with yourself in recognition of your guile.

The rest of the walk is more of the same – you tease him and he yells until you both eventually forget what it was you were originally talking about, at which point you mutually agree to move on to a new topic… wherein you inevitably find something new to tease him about and he starts yelling again. Such is your routine.

And yeah, maybe that makes you the classic immature douche who pulls on someone’s pigtails to signal that you might like them – but in your defense, Karkat’s pigtails are _awfully_ pullable. Besides, you’re cautiously optimistic that all the performative bluster and hot air he sends in your direction is more or less his way of doing the same thing to you.

Which means maybe, just maybe… he’s kinda flirting with you, too.

In fact, it might just be that you and Karkat are simultaneously flirting with each other.

But like you said, it’s not a big deal. You’re just two people, possibly engaged in mild, harmless flirtation. It’s not like you’re dating.

Although, you are going to see a movie together.

That’s fine, though. You watch movies with him all the time. …This time you’re going out to see one, of course, but it doesn’t mean you’re _going out_ , or anything crazy like that. Friends go to the movies! You and Karkat are just friends who enjoy casually flirting and going out together, and it’s definitely NO BIG DEAL.

…Oh god.

Holy shit, this might be a date.

Okay… okay, it’s fine.

This is fine.

This is totally –

“Hey, Dave –,”

“I’m _fine!”_ you all but shout, whirling around to find Karkat stopped about ten feet behind you.

“Uh, good to know…” His eyebrows are hiked pretty far up his forehead, and he looks at you like you’re sprouting a second head or something. Which, fair enough. “We’re here,” he says, pointing to the movie theater doors that you have apparently walked right past.

“Oh! Right. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.” Jesus Christ, you might actually be having a fucking stroke.

He’s still giving you a look that, more than anything, tells you a third head might now be joining the first two. “Alright… you planning on going in, or…?”

“Yes. Absolutely. We are gonna go in there, and we are gonna watch a movie. Together.”

Karkat spins in a semicircle, scanning the sidewalk behind him before checking across the street. Not finding anything out of the ordinary, he turns back to you with a nonplussed expression. “Are you okay?”

Okay, you have really, truly gotta pull your shit together now. This is not a good look. Not that you’re worried about looking good for _oh my god stop it stop it stop_ – “Dude, I’m fine.”

“Yeah, I heard that,” he says flatly. “You’re just, you know. Acting like an even bigger freak than usual. Which I didn’t know was possible, and in some ways is actually kind of impressive, but…”

This is so stupid. You’re gonna permanently fuck up your brand here if you keep acting like such a pathetic dingus. What you _should_ do is come right out and ask him point blank what this is. No lame hesitation, no chance of confusion. Keep this shit more real than Kraft mayo, that’s how Striders roll.

You open your mouth, and what comes out instead is, “No way, man. Just fuckin’ hype as shit for this box office bonanza. Blockbuster of the year, baby! Let’s watch some _Star Wars!”_

“ _Space Strife_.”

“What’d I say?”

He blinks, shaking his head in a manner similar to that of the freshly concussed, and heads for the door without saying anything else. You follow him after a moment, thinking if it’s true that could’ve gone better, it stands to reason that it also could’ve gone a lot worse.

Being direct is overrated, you reason to yourself as you buy your tickets and make your way to the theater. The only thing more important than keeping it real is keeping it chill. What’s chill about standing on the street, demanding to know whether a friendly outing is technically a date or not? That doesn’t sound very chill to you. Sounds pretty goddamn UNCHILL, frankly. This approach is much better, you think, taking your seat. Ambiguity affords you latitude. It gives you room to maneuver – to breathe.

Karkat catches you staring at him a couple minutes later, just as the lights in the theater dim. Or, he _sort of_ catches you staring – you have at least a shred of plausible deniability because of the shades. He gives you a bemused look, and you’re sure he still thinks you’re acting like a nut.

After a moment he extends his bucket of popcorn in your direction, giving it a shake.

 _Breathe_ , you think, trying to keep the nerves out of your grin as you take a handful.

Just… breathe.

\--

In the end, it seems like you got yourself all worked up over nothing.

And let’s be clear, here – you did manage to get yourself pretty well worked up.

You’d say the movie itself was fine, based on Karkat’s overall positive reaction to it. You wouldn’t be able to make much of your own judgment; you spend the duration of the runtime in a state of extreme hyperawareness focused exclusively on the moviegoer next to you, agonizing over every twitch of his fingers, every time he shifts in his seat. What if he tries to hold your hand, or put his arm around you, or make out?

What if he expects _you_ to make the first move?

Then the credits are rolling and the lights come on, and you realize you’ve made it through without any of that ever coming to fruition. You don’t know whether you’re disappointed or relieved. You _do_ know you’re exhausted by the whole experience.

Let’s just say you have way more empathy for every dumb asshole in those will-they-won’t-they flicks Karkat loves so much. That shit is legitimately draining.

You think that must be that, for better or worse, nothing left to do now but walk home and say your farewells, but once you’re outside Karkat turns to you and says, “Do you mind if we stop by the library real quick?”

It is now _finally_ your turn to look bewildered tonight. “The library?”

“I wanna exchange some DVDs,” he explains, gesturing to the drawstring bag on his back. You were wondering why he brought that with him, but the curiosity got lost in the midst of everything else, to put it lightly.

“Dude, it’ll be like midnight by the time we even get there.”

“It’s the college library, it’s open twenty-four hours.” A strange expression crosses his face, and he starts to shift uncomfortably. “I mean, unless you wanted to head home, don’t feel obligated –,”

“No, it’s cool,” you say, cutting him off. He immediately relaxes. “Can we get in if we’re not students?”

He shrugs. “Shouldn’t matter. I swiped Kankri’s card.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“He teaches there,” Karkat elaborates.

“Really?” He nods. “Well, shit,” you say.

“What?”

“Nothing, I just – I dunno, figured he was a mobster or something like that.”

You have to wait a block or two to continue the conversation, because that’s how long it takes him to stop wheezing with laughter after that.

“You about done,” you grumble, as Karkat presses a fist to his forehead and takes a few deep breaths to steady himself.

“Sorry,” he gasps, “it’s – just like, the stupidest thing anyone’s ever suggested –,”

“Alright, I get it,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest in a huff, and he dissolves in another fit of laughter. “What does he teach?” you ask, when you can get a word in edgewise.

“Sociology and social justice, last time I checked.”

Huh. “That sounds… interesting. Hey, _do not_ start laughing again,” you warn, shoving a threatening finger in his face when he snorts.

He waves a hand at you, grinning. “I mean, I guess it could theoretically be interesting to precisely the right person, under precisely the right conditions and circumstances, but I don’t think there’s any chance _Kankri_ meets those criteria.”

“Why not?”

“Listen, if you spent five minutes with him you’d get it.” Yeah, wouldn’t that be fascinating for a whole _host_ of reasons – but Karkat’s not really grasping the full implications of that, too involved in the point he’s trying to make, “I’m not saying he doesn’t have a genuine passion for the subject matter, but I still think the main reason he went into academia was because he knew it’s basically the only profession where you’re not only permitted, but actively encouraged to lecture a captive audience for a few hours every day.”

“Sounds like he hit the jackpot twice since he’s also got a captive audience at home.” Karkat groans. “I’m joking, dude,” you say, “…Mostly.”

“Dave,” he says, and most of the humor’s evaporated from his voice now, but at least he doesn’t seem extraordinarily pissed off at you, “when are you gonna… gonna get over…”

You look at him quizzically, but he’s not looking at you. He’s staring straight ahead, jaw working soundlessly, eyes wide. You follow his gaze but don’t see anything out of the ordinary – there are a few other people out and about, even at this time of night, but nothing seems obviously _wrong_.

“Shit,” he finally breathes. Then his hands wrap around your upper arm, and he’s dragging you towards a gap between two buildings, muttering a steady mantra of, “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” the entire time.

“What?” you say, and he doesn’t answer, still just muttering curses under his breath. “Karkat, what?” He tugs you a few feet into the dark, stopping when he realizes that the makeshift alley dead ends just a little further down.

“ _Shit!”_ he hisses.

He must’ve seen something out on the street, something you clearly missed. You try to pull away from him, wanting to go take another look – no matter what he’s running from, you don’t make a habit of running from much of anything – but he grabs you again, tighter this time, shaking his head in a kind of panic.

“Karkat, what the fuck –,” but he cuts you off, tapping on your chest insistently.

“We need to – we have to do something –,”

“Do what?”

“I don’t know, it doesn’t matter, we just have to –,”

“ _Why?”_

“We don’t have time –,”

“Then make some! You are freaking me out, man, you have to tell me what’s –,”

“ _Dave!”_ He’s begging more than anything else, his eyes wild and fearful, and you try to think of something, _anything_ – but the only thing that’s coming to you is the stupid movie you just saw, and the fact that you can’t even remember any of it because you were too preoccupied not knowing if it was a stupid date, and now something’s fucking happening and you don’t know what the hell to do, you don’t even know what’s going on, _what are you supposed to do –_

You tear your wrist out of his grasp, grab him by the shoulders, and push him against the wall.

Then you kiss him.

He stills instantly, fingers stuttering to a halt against your ribs. Your hands slide from his shoulders, up his neck, until you’re holding his head just below the ears, your fingers curling in the scratchy hair at the base of his neck, the pads of your thumbs lightly brushing his cheekbones. His lips are dry, but soft.

That’s about all the detail you have time for – you’re trying to pay attention to the mouth of the alley, too, wondering what the fuck’s got him acting like this. After a couple of seconds, two shapes become visible in the streetlight – they pause for the briefest moment, taking a quick glance your way before evidently choosing to move on.

You count to ten after they’ve vanished from view, then you pull away, darting towards the street. Karkat doesn’t say anything, or otherwise make any move to stop you.

You peer around the corner of the building and see two trolls walking away. They’re fully grown, and wearing identical outfits – like some kind of uniform, pants tucked into their boots, vests over long-sleeved shirts; everything either dark blue or black, the night makes it hard to tell. You have no idea who they are.

You watch them for another minute or so. Then you take a deep breath, turning back to the shadowy depths of the alley.

Karkat’s leaning heavily against the wall, a shell-shocked look on his face. He’s got one hand held flat against his forehead, and as you approach he pushes it slowly up into his hair. You lean against the wall opposite him, waiting.

It takes a while, but you’re in no rush. He stands up a little straighter when he’s ready, not quite able to look you in the face when he says, “What the hell was that?”

“Great question. Really looking forward to the answer.”

Somehow that takes him by surprise, and his eyes lift in an attempt to meet yours, blood pooling in his cheeks pretty much immediately. “ _You_ kissed _me_ ,” he says, voice hushed as if the two of you are still sitting in a crowded theater.

And, well… yeah.

Yeah you did, didn’t you.

“Barely,” you reply with a scoff, because your options here are either playing it cool or fully regressing to the state of lame nerd panic that’s been threatening to overwhelm you all night long.

“ _What?”_ You think you may be helping Karkat recover a sense of relative normalcy as well, because the volume there is only slightly below the level of a shriek.

“I’m not trying to dog myself here or anything – sorta didn’t have a ton of options at my disposal since you literally and figuratively _cornered us_ – but c’mon dude. It’s like the least original trick in the book. I could probably find the TV Tropes page for that one in two seconds.” You’ve reduced him to a series of indignant splutters now, so after a pause you tack on, “Besides, a real kiss wouldn’t be anything like that.”

“Oh _really!_ And what exactly would a ‘real kiss’ entail, hot shot?”

You cock your head to the side, thoughtful. “Tongue,” you eventually say, and he makes a sound that you assume would typically accompany an aneurysm. “Listen, I’m not gonna let some lighthearted discussion about the finer points of genuine sloppy makeouts derail us from the fuckin’ issue at hand.”

“How is this not the issue –,”

“Karkat,” you say, with a gravity that stops whatever was about to come out of his mouth next right in its tracks. “What,” you take a step forward, “ _the fuck,_ ” another step, “was that?” You gesture somewhat violently towards the street. “What happened? Who are those fucking trolls?”

He shrinks away from you like he’s hoping he might just be able to melt into the wall at his back, eyes darting around nervously. “I – I’m…” He’s doing that thing people do when they’re casting around for some lie or another, and you want to tell him not to, you want the _truth_ , but before you get the chance he says, “I’m sorry.”

And he bolts.

“Goddammit,” you mutter, moving to follow him. You emerge from the alley and hang a left – opposite from the way those uniformed trolls were heading, but ultimately the wrong direction if the destination is home.

Karkat’s moving right along ahead of you – he isn’t quite _running_ , but you’d definitely call it a powerwalk. “Karkat,” you call after him impatiently, jogging to catch up.

“Go home,” he spits over his shoulder, not stopping for you.

“You are such a turd,” is your response. You snag him by the elbow when you’re close enough, and he rounds on you.

“ _Dave, go the fuck home._ ”

“No.”

He pulls away with a snarl and keeps walking.

“Where are you going?” you ask, still following him.

“The library.”

“But those trolls –,”

“ _Be quiet!”_ he hisses. He takes a moment to collect himself, then gestures behind your backs, “They went that way.” He points ahead. “I’m going this way.”

“Do you know them or something?” You hear a low rumble coming from his chest and decide to keep it up anyway. “Are they in-laws? Exes? Ex in-laws? Cultists? Are you and Kankri on the lam from Scientologists?”

“Okay, you can quit the brain-dead asshole charade now! You’ve made your point!” You frown at him, and he groans. “What do you want from me! They were –,” his voice drops to a hiss again, “– _imperial fucking forces_ , what the fuck did it look like?”

You blink uncomprehendingly, which you realize he can’t actually see. “Imperial what?”

“Good one, Dave! No really, awesome joke! Look, my torso is positively wracked with peals of sidesplitting laughter.”

You give him a blank stare.

His eyes narrow. “That _was_ a bad joke, right?”

Nope.

“Oh my god. You know, I heard things about the public schools around here, but this is outrageous. You are literally a child left behind. The crack you fell through must resemble the Mariana fucking Trench.”

That’s just hurtful. “Joke's on you, I didn’t go to public school. I learned exclusively from _the streets_. Got my associate’s degree at _the school of hard knocks_. Been working towards the bachelor’s, but that night school’s _a bitch_.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You take classes at night?”

“No, I’m like – being glib, man, fuckin’ keep up –,”

“So you got your schoolfeed at home?”

“That sounds like an odd, foreign way of putting it, but sure I guess.”

Karkat doesn’t look all that convinced. “Dave,” he says slowly, “have you ever had any kind of formal education?”

Wait how the fuck did this happen – “Hey, hold on, this isn’t what we’re talking about. We’re talking about you and your problems with troll immigration. Stop distracting me.”

“For the love of –,” A hand fists in the front of your shirt, and he drags you away from the center of the sidewalk again. You wonder vaguely if you’re headed for another alley – and whether you’ll be expected to kiss him once you get there – but instead he tugs you straight through a series of glass doors to your left.

Inside the building is bright and clean, contrasting sharply with the dark gloom of the evening street. Karkat pulls you past a check-in counter, flashing Kankri’s ID card at the disinterested student worker seated there. She yawns and waves you both through.

You sort of get a kick out of him manhandling you around, so you’re content to let him lead you past the myriad study tables scattered across the first floor, dotted with overburdened students desperately trying to burn the midnight oil, over to a staircase in the far corner of the room. He ends up taking you to the third level, which seems mostly abandoned – nothing but hulking bookcases from wall to wall and a blanket of eerie silence.

Which you suppose isn’t all that eerie or unexpected, since it’s a library and all.

“Are you gonna talk to me now or do you wanna waste a little more time?” you ask when he finally lets go of your shirt, standing deep amidst the rows of shelves.

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” he mumbles in response.

Shit, that probably means he just wants to waste time, why did you even include that as a viable option, “Karkat, I want to know –,”

“Alright, Jesus! Broken fucking record…” He scrubs a hand over his face, checking over both your shoulders to make sure that you’re alone. You are, but he still visibly hesitates before he asks, “What do you already know about trolls?”

“Uh. You’re like… insect-mammal people. Your food seems kinda gross.”

He waits a beat. “Are you fucking kidding me.”

“What.”

“That’s it?!”

“Well, no.” Shit, what else is there. “Um… you came from like, underground, or the ocean. Or both? And there was something about a fish queen who may have actually been more like Fish Hitler? Then I guess there was some whole clash of civilizations a while back, but that ended and now a bunch of you live with us.”

He stares at you in a muted kind of disbelief. “Wow. That is an obscene oversimplification of literally hundreds of years of complex and often fraught shared history between two distinct cultures.”

“But that’s the gist of it, right. I ain’t got all day. Or, night.”

“Yes, fine, your short-form bastardization of reality and removal of any and all context will adequately suit our purposes, since our purposes are fucking dumb too.” He exhales a particularly put-upon sigh, scratching at a spot just below one of his horns. “It’s not that there _was_ a fish queen, okay? There _is_ one. Still. The… Empress.”

“Whoa. Really?”

Karkat nods. “The various echelons of the imperial forces serve at her pleasure, although most people don’t think she’s actually involved in the daily administration – probably delegated the responsibility to some other highblood nobility. None of that is really relevant to us, though.”

“It isn’t?”

“Does the national leadership of the Fraternal Order of Police matter that much to your everyday cop on the beat?” He stops, giving you a suddenly exasperated look that you don’t remember earning, “See how I know enough about the world around me to make that comparison, even though I’m a troll and those are historically human institutions of law enforcement –,”

“Yeah jackass, I get it, just keep going.”

He shrugs. “I mean, that’s pretty much it. They’re the royal police. The end.”

“You are so fucking ridiculous,” you say, and his expression turns scandalized. “That is _not it_ , what are you even talking about. The fact that they exist doesn’t explain why you’re running from them!”

“I’m not running! I just don’t wanna be hassled!”

“Why would they hassle you?”

“They hassle _everyone!”_

You cross your arms over your chest. “Never bothered me.”

“You’re human! You didn’t even know they existed! You have –,” he shudders violently, which you don’t really understand, “– _privilege_.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” you start to say, but he interrupts.

“Oh, Dave, come on.”

“What! Far as I know, Fish Hitler’s still in the ocean, the Allies won the war, god bless America – why do fuckin’ troll federales even have jurisdiction here?”

“I don’t know, fucking years of overwrought political scheming and machinations? How far into this do you wanna go?”

“I want to understand what’s happening,” you say, your frustration mounting.

Karkat’s right there with you, giving a clump of his own hair an irritated tug. “Okay – you’re familiar with the system we have now, right. You’ve got troll-majority precincts, mostly along the coasts; settlements that popped up either as a direct result of invasions during times of open conflict between humans and trolls, or that sprouted from lowblood refugee camps which started developing after the wars were over.”

“Right…”

“You’ve got hybrid areas like this one, where existing troll and human localities blended together, and where we now live in a futuristic utopia of total bliss.”

You grin wolfishly. “Obviously.”

“And then you have the remaining human-majority states, mostly untouched by the encroaching Alternian scourge.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, here’s the thing about self-governance – most people fucking suck at it, and it turns out trolls suck even more than most. So when all those free trolls in their new coastal paradises finally unyoked themselves from the heavy irons of imperial slavery, they took one look around and thought, hey, this doesn’t quite remind me enough of good old home. Most of them established their own rules and enforcement methods based entirely on the classic Alternian model, which of course the Empress was then able to subtly influence like the savvy, predatory capitalist she is, and eventually bring them under full informal control as a series of proxy imperial forces that shadowed the work and intentions of the original genuine article.”

Man, this _is_ a lot of overwrought political gibberish. “Okay…”

“Meanwhile, you have the human establishment, which as a rule is exclusively populated by only the most feckless of cowards –,” ouch, “– who are concerned about the growing grassroots influence of the Empress, but only insofar as it affects humanity. So they concede to all these ludicrous requests from the neo-imperial forces, recognizing them as the final executive authority over all Alternian people, pretty much eliminating any constraints on their reach and methods, all in exchange for the promise that they’ll leave humans alone. This is a promise the troll authority is more than happy to keep, because as long as the humans are happy, trolls more or less have free reign over their own. The human power structure could give a rancid pile of dogshit about us.”

“Which means?”

“ _Which means_ ,” Karkat says, “royal police can come into a nice, functioning interspecies utopia like this one, and crack my head like a fucking egg as long as they keep their paws off yours.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No shit!”

Wow. You really didn’t know any of this. You guess you’ve seen uniformed trolls around in your life, but you didn’t realize… “So,” you say, with an uncomfortable cough, “human privilege, huh?”

“Fucking tell me about it,” he mutters.

“What do they harass people – uh, trolls – about? When they’re like stopping them on the street, or whatever.”

He shrugs again. “I don’t know. Anything. Everything.” He opens his mouth, then shuts it, turning to give you a somewhat anxious look. You pretend not to notice, and eventually he says, “What do you know about the hemospectrum?”

“The wha – oh! Yeah. Your guys whole rainbow blood thing.” You nearly forgot about that. “Humans bleed bright red, you guys bleed everything else.”

“Right,” he says, after a hesitation. “It was a caste system, in old Alternia. The formal structure of it didn’t carry over to some parts of the new world, but most of the prejudices did. They mainly give people endless shit about that, targeting and intimidating lowbloods, letting highbloods skate on literal murder.”

You nod along thoughtfully. “And then you, with your secret issues…”

“It’s just better not to have any run-ins, okay.”

You can accept that in broad strokes. “It’s not because _you’re_ a mobster, right?” He gives you an exhausted look. “I’m just checking.”

“No, Dave,” he says, turning on his heel to leave your hidden spot amongst the shelves, “I am but a simple troll, trying to exchange one set of romantic comedies for another. Speaking of, media’s on the second floor.” He heads back towards the staircase and you follow behind him, hands shoved in your pockets.

That was quite the information dump, and you think you’re going to need a little time – and maybe some independent googling – to process the ramifications of it all. Still, there’s at least one thing you can follow up on right now.

“Hey,” you say, and Karkat’s head swivels on his shoulders, “is it bad form to ask trolls about their blood color?”

His eyebrows knit together in a sure sign of bad temper. “Yes,” he replies, a note of clear warning in his voice.

“Okay.” You wait for him to turn away from you. “Can I ask anyway?”

“No!”

Party pooper.

“Fine,” you say, your tone careless, “just another mystery to endlessly ruminate on, I guess. I should thank you; you are single-handedly gonna give me and Rose enough bullshit to wildly speculate about for the rest of our lives.”

There is a moment – one shining, singular moment – when you realize the staggering degree to which you are a massive, miserable fuckup. It’s the moment between those words leaving your mouth and the next, when Karkat turns back around, eyes suddenly clouded with mistrust, and says, “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t know about Rose.

And he _definitely_ doesn’t know that Rose knows about him.

Shit. Shit, shit – “Uh, no, hold on –,”

“You told someone about me?”

“No! …Well. Yes.” He stops, turns to face you completely, and you can see the tension thrumming along his limbs. This was not the coolest thing you could have done just now. “But you don’t have anything to worry about! I trust her with my life, not even hyperbolically –,”

“So you took it upon yourself to trust her with mine, too.”

 _Fuck_. “Listen, it was just – in the beginning, when I didn’t even know who you were, I was just telling her that I _suspected_ something might be going on next door. That’s all.”

You take an unconscious step forward, but there’s no missing how he takes a corresponding step back. “And after,” he demands, and he’s looking at you all wrong, “when you found out there _was_ something going on next door, what did you say then?”

This feels like it’s moving so fast – ten fucking seconds ago he was telling you more shit than he’s ever told you about anything, and now – you have got to _fix this_ , “I’m sorry dude, I didn’t know – I _still_ don’t know what’s up with you, I didn’t realize –,”

“Does she know my name?”

“…”

He laughs, and it’s the most humorless sound you ever heard. “Let me get this straight – you told someone who I am, where they can find me –,”

“No,” you argue, because that actually isn’t right, “not where to find you.”

“She knows I’m your neighbor!”

“Yeah, but –,”

“I don’t want to hear it! I don’t care about fucking – _excuses!”_

And you’re sorry, you are… but it turns out that’s not all you are. “Can you slow down for a fucking _second?_ It was a mistake, okay. I apologize. But what the fuck do you think, I’m out here purposely trying to fuck your life up? I’m not a fucking saboteur, I’m trying to be your friend.”

“I didn’t ask you to be my friend! I didn’t ask you to tell anyone about me, I didn’t ask you to nearly get me caught by imperial assholes –,”

Wow. “Oh, that’s my fault now?”

“ _YES!”_ He better hope this floor is actually abandoned, because you’d have to be deaf not to hear him now. “I _always_ see them coming; I _always_ know what to do! You’re reckless because you don’t actually fucking care, because you have no reason to fucking care, and it makes _me_ reckless! Tonight, a couple weeks ago with the fucking grocery store when we didn’t take the back way home –,” damn it… “– I can’t afford your selfish, negligent, didn’t-know-any-better bullshit! This isn’t a fucking game to me!”

“Hey, it’s not a game to me either,” you say, and you know you’re getting heated but it’s so hard to stop yourself, “I just didn’t realize _I_ needed to apologize for every stupid fucking thing _you’ve_ done since we met.”

His chest swells, and for a moment you think he’s just gonna explode. Literally, figuratively – whatever. Either. Both.

But he catches himself, right at the cliff’s edge. His eyes are sparking with fury, his face is all blotchy, he’s breathing heavily – but he composes himself, just a hair, just enough to tell you, “Fuck off, Dave,” in a reasonable approximation of an indoor voice. Then he whips around, stalking away from you like an angry storm cloud fading into the distance.

“Yeah, no problem!” you call after him. You take the steps two at a time when you reach the stairwell, stomping through the room filled with study tables and bursting out onto the street in a sufficiently foul mood of your own. You’re so steamed that it takes a few blocks of walking before the first traces of regret begin to creep into your mind.

It’s only a few blocks later, when you’re passing a newly familiar alley, that you remember this was not at all how the night was supposed to go.

You were such a moron all night. Seriously, just – a total doofus. You should’ve blown it, and you basically did. You certainly didn’t do anything to help yourself.

And then, unexpectedly, _miraculously_ … you were kissing him.

And now…

You stop, pinching the bridge of your nose so hard you might break it.

…Damn it.

God _damn_ it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry xmas i got u all fuckin uhhhhhhhhhh............ drama


	5. Chapter 5

tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering  turntechGodhead [TG]

TT: Why is it that nary a rock in our collective society can be lifted nowadays without some heinous sexual deviant slithering out from under it?  
TT: I don't mean to sound naive, women have only been ringing this particular alarm for the past all of recorded history, but... maybe I hoped there'd been more progress? That if it was this insidious and this prevalent in the past, at least we'd begun the arduous process of unwinding some of those threads?  
TT: Instead I find them wrapped around our throats as tightly as ever, to the point where I live in a state of constant dread of The New York Times application on my phone. Every time a notification pops up I get a fucking migraine.  
TG: pavlovs principles of classical conditioning as applied to gross sexual misconduct  
TT: Exactly! Dual-purpose usage of 'gross' there, too.  
TT: Also, since there wasn't really a greeting anywhere in there - hello, Dave.  
TG: hey  
TT: I realized I hadn't heard from you in a while - you'll have to forgive me, I'm starting to believe time passes irregularly when you spend roughly half of it reading about yet another man abusing his scant amassment of relative power for perverse and nefarious ends.  
TG: no problem  
TT: So,  
TT: How have you been?  
TG: cant complain  
TT: Anything exciting going on? Gotten up to any, and I quote, "hot sloppy shenanigans" in the past week?  
TG: um  
TG: not really  
TT: This isn't the lighthearted distraction from the woeful state of current events that I was hoping for, I must say.  
TG: sorry  
TT: You don't have anything to be sorry for. I usually don't have to work this hard to get you talking about... whatever it is you always talk about, is all.  
TG: uh  
TT: Oh, what about your date last week? How did that go?  
TG: it wasnt a date  
TT: I cannot fathom why you bother with this charade.  
TT: You could be making out with him at a drive-in movie and you would still insist on being coy about whether you're dating him.  
TT: "Who can say for sure," you would declare with a shrug, as you exchanged sentimental mementos with one another and planned your future family together.  
TG: it was just a regular movie i dont even have a car  
TT: That wasn't quite the crux of the matter, but okay.  
TG: but i guess you have a point since one thing led to another and there ended up being some hanky panky in the end  
TG: think im on record as sayin it was fake hanky panky though  
TT: Oh wow, way to bury the lede.  
TT: Wait.  
TT: Fake hanky panky?  
TG: doesnt really matter since it was immediately followed by a massive betrayal of trust and we havent spoken since  
TG: but who knows maybe youre right and it was a date i could see that argument  
TT: What??  
TG: he found out that i told you about him  
TG: and by found out i mean i blurted it out in the service of a shitty joke like you might expect  
TT: Oh...  
TT: And that... upset him?  
TG: it didnt thrill him  
TT: Wow.  
TT: Um.  
TT: Sorry, Dave.  
TG: i appreciate it  
TG: this one isnt actually on you though  
TT: I understand that.  
TT: But I'm sorry nevertheless.  
TG: thanks  
TT: So what happened?  
TT: I mean, if you don't mind talking about it.  
TG: i dont even know i said something stupid and then he was just  
TG: freaking out  
TG: and i tried to explain for half a minute and then i just started fighting with him and  
TG: ugh  
TT: You really haven't talked to him since?  
TG: not a word  
TT: Do you want to talk to him again?  
TG: no  
TG: yes  
TG: i dont know  
TT: Do you want to engage in more hanky panky with him?  
TG: rose  
TT: I don't mean that to make light or to make fun. And I don't necessarily need an answer.  
TT: It's just something you might want to honestly consider when you're thinking about all this.  
TG: im not thinking about all this though  
TG: or i AM but  
TG: listen all ive done is been in his face and pushed him outside his comfort zone and generally fucked shit up and now here we are so im thinking maybe that what i think doesnt matter  
TG: its not my turn to move  
TT: That's a mature approach.  
TG: you can say surprisingly mature its okay  
TG: the generally serious tone of this conversation doesnt have to degrade the typical exchange of sass here  
TT: Charitable of you.  
TG: i know  
TT: I understand giving him space. If you'd asked me what you should do here, it's probably the route I would have recommended.  
TT: But I still think it's worth evaluating, on your own, what your version of a best possible outcome looks like. What do you want, and why do you want it? You may find it a useful exercise, no matter what he does. It's also an aspect of this that you can control, whereas his actions are not.  
TT: And if it helps, and if you have the opportunity, you could always give him my contact information. I am a factor in this, even if just tangentially.  
TT: If he has lingering concerns about my involvement, I would do my best to assuage them.  
TG: ...  
TT: Is that okay?  
TG: yeah  
TG: its okay  
TG: thanks rose  
TT: Of course, Dave.  
TT: I know talking with me about this has gotten you in hot water, and Karkat certainly has a right to his privacy and his story. It is not my intention to deprive him of either.  
TT: But I want to be exceptionally clear that I'm here for _you_ , and if there are things that aren't sitting right that you need to talk about... you come to me, and fuck what he says.  
TT: Alright?  
TG: lol damn  
TT: You will find there are some issues on which I do not play.  
TG: apparently not  
TG: and yeah message received  
TT: Good.  
TT: And now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I've missed at least six new notifications since we began chatting, which I can only assume will expose several more culturally beloved men as raging lifelong creeps.  
TG: take your advil before you dive in  
TT: There's been more ibuprofen than blood in my veins for weeks.  
TG: word  
TG: have at it then  
TT: I intend to.  
TT: Love you, Dave.

tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering  turntechGodhead [TG]

TG: love you too

turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering  tentacleTherapist [TT]

\--

Today you’re going to clean the house.

This isn’t exactly a regular occurrence for you. You don’t mind a mess, generally speaking – ‘organized chaos’ is actually your preferred term of art in all matters related to housekeeping. Even so, it turns out everyone has a breaking point. Yours is getting up to leave your room when the clutter becomes too claustrophobic, only to find that skin-crawling sensation following you wherever you go, like an inescapable stench; the hallway, the stairwell, the living room, the kitchen – your house is one giant Dutch oven of suffocating disarray, and if something doesn’t change sooner rather than later, you are gonna _fucking lose it_ –

You almost blow a gasket in the middle of the kitchen. You don’t really know what that would look like, precisely, other than the shadows creeping up on you and you eventually doing some kind of acrobatic fucking pirouette off of… like… the countertops or something? Instead, in a flurry of activity spurred on by the sincere desire not to have a full mental breakdown alone in your own home, you stomp over to one of the cabinets, retrieve a box of contractor trash bags, and slam the cabinet door behind you.

Then you just start tossing shit.

There is trash and would-be trash all over your house. Some of it is the result of what you consider to be age-typical bachelor pad untidiness; empty bags of Doritos you tossed in a corner rather than throw away, cans of Coke and bottles of apple juice, old receipts and forgotten cardboard boxes scattered across the floors, broken Xbox controllers shoved into couch cushions. Other stuff is more peculiar, and probably more specific to your individual situation – like those fucking mannequins, all cut up and half-shoved into the closets, or the array of worthless swords rusting all over the place. You wonder, as you fill an entire bag with dismembered plastic anatomy and dull metal weaponry, why you didn’t throw this load of shit away sooner.

You drag the first full bag down to the curb when you’re done, but as it becomes apparent that this will be a multi-Hefty effort, you just start leaving them on your front porch to deal with later. Once the first floor is done you move up to the second, detrashing your room and the bathroom, even cleaning a little out of the spare room while you’re at it.

You mean, there’s not a whole lot in that room to start with. That’s why it’s called a spare.

You take care not to think too much about the closed door at the end of the upstairs hall. There’s more than enough to do around the rest of the house without dealing with all that right now. You’ll cross the bridge over that particular river of raw sewage when you come to it.

_If_ you come to it.

You finally finish collecting all the garbage – four giant bags of it sitting out on your porch when all is said and done – but the fever hasn’t passed. Unfortunately, a quick inspection of every closet and cabinet in the place tells you that you’re woefully short on durable cleaning supplies. You momentarily consider giving up, or at the very least attempting to make do with warm water, paper towels, and the one or two dish sponges remaining in the kitchen.

You rapidly dismiss that idea, grab your backpack, and head for the door.

Half an hour and a trip to the store later, you return armed to the teeth. You have dusters for the ceiling fans and surface cleaner for the furniture; you have sprays that clean shower, toilet bowl, and sink; you have solution to remove stains from carpeting and some weird powder that makes it smell good after you vacuum. You have magic erasers, which come highly recommended from Rose and really are a kind of miracle product – not that you plan on telling her anything about this little frenzy, because she’s already too confident in the influence she wields over your life choices. The point is, you are ready to seriously fuck up some dirt.

You use it all and then some. You shampoo the old carpets and mop the tacky linoleum. You launder all your bedding and organize the kitchen drawers. You wipe dust out of the vents and pull hair out of the drains. You clean every fucking thing you can think of, waiting for the moment where you’ll feel content, when you’ll be ready to stop even if you haven’t necessarily touched on everything. The moment never comes. You keep going.

It’s slow, hard work, and you’re at it for hours. When you finally stop, it’s only because there’s literally nothing left to do. By the end you’re sticky with sweat, streaks of dust and grime marking your t-shirt and the exposed skin of your arms. You’re filthy and tired, but the house looks good. You do a final walkthrough to admire your work, nursing some AJ the way you imagine certain men nurse a beer at the end of a long day. It looks really good, actually.

So why the fuck aren’t you satisfied? Why do you still feel so… unfinished?

You end up standing outside that closed door on the second floor again. You always end up here eventually. You don’t touch it. You just… look at it. _What’s the worst that could happen if I opened this_ , you wonder to yourself, and still find that you honestly don’t know the answer.

That feeling’s back, like your skin’s trying to wriggle away from the rest of your body. The cleaning spree didn’t help; if anything, it’s worse than before you started. Your instincts are pulling you in ten different directions, each one actively contradicting all the others. You want to kick the door in, just get it over with and face whatever’s on the other side already. You want to sprint down the stairs, out onto the street, and never come back to this house as long as you live. You want to light a fire in the living room and call it the bitter end, sit there and let the whole fucking thing come crashing down around you in a symphony of heat and smoke.

You jump about a foot in the air when the hallway light starts to flicker. Your heart is racing. You need to calm the fuck down.

You turn away from the door, scurrying towards the staircase. The light stops flickering once you take the first step. You finally take a breath once you hit the bottom.

Some other time, you think. You’ll deal with it, just… some other time.

Right as you begin to fret over what’s going to occupy your time for the next – who fucking knows, the rest of your life? – you remember the trash bags out on the front porch. Thank god. Maybe you can find a way to make taking the garbage out last fifty hours or something.

To your dismay, it does not last fifty hours – even though you take the bags one by one and pretty much do anything you can think of to drag it out. You cleaned right through the day, and you find the night outside to be quiet and cool, chilling the sweat on the back of your neck and raising goosebumps across your forearms. You manhandle the last bag down to the curb, leaning against the pile once you’re done to observe your house from a distance. You try to imagine you’re someone who’s never seen the place before.

The overwhelming impression is dark and uninviting.

You sigh, figuring you’ll just go back in and distract yourself with the internet. It’s been a pretty successful tactic in your life thus far – if it ain’t broke, et cetera. You shift your weight to push away from the pile of garbage, knocking over one of the bags in the process. A single severed mannequin head escapes from the overturned bag, rolling a few feet down the sidewalk in a hopeless bid for freedom before grinding to a despondent stop.

You stoop to pick it up, intending to simply return it to its place with the rest of the trash. Something stops you, though. You don’t know what it is – the blank expanse of its eyes, the churning agita in your own gut. Maybe it’s nothing more than pure, unadulterated whimsy. You stare at the head until you can’t stand looking at it anymore, then you drop it, your foot connecting a moment later to punt the thing away. It lands on someone’s lawn across the street, about six houses down.

It feels oddly therapeutic, and the thought of a befuddled neighbor finding it sometime tomorrow morning almost makes you smile. Then it’s time to steel your resolve and make your way back to your house.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Then again, maybe it isn’t time to do that at all.

Not even the shades can mask the obviously surprised look on your face when you hear the sound of Karkat’s voice. You turn and there he is, leaning out of the bedroom window that he first pulled you through what feels like forever ago. Of course, it really wasn’t all that long ago, but it sure _seems_ that way. It seems like ages since the last time you saw him, too – but here he is, talking to you and everything.

In fact, it’s probably about time you said something back to him.

“Cleaning,” you settle on, taking a few steps towards the line where your properties touch. It has the advantage of being true, after all.

He’s giving you a patented Vantas look – sort of astonished, but also making it painfully clear that he thinks you’re bonkers. “Of course. This would obviously be the customary scattering of heads throughout the neighborhood that is required every time a person picks up a broom. How could I forget.”

“Dunno, dude. Gonna have to solve that one for yourself.”

You’re sorry the second you say it, watching as his expression turns from astonishment to awkwardness. You could’ve played ball with him right there – get to talking some meaningless shit, not make this so glaringly uncomfortable for the both of you. Instead… “Yeah,” he says, using his right hand to rub at his left elbow, “I guess I will.”

Then neither of you says anything.

A thought occurs to you in the silence – what if this whole time you’ve been waiting on him, he’s also been waiting on you? What if he’s expecting some huge apology or heartfelt show of remorse, and you’ve just been – fuck. _Fuck_. Okay, how about ‘sorry for possibly doing irreparable and barely understood damage to the way in which you choose to live your life, but if you wanna make out I’m still probably game’. Oh, Jesus. Oh god that’s bad. You have to _not_ say that, under _any_ circumstances, _holy shit_ –

“Well,” you start to say, not really knowing where you want to go with it, at the same exact time he says, “So…”

You both stop, exchanging nervous looks.

“Sorry, what were you trying to say –,”

“Nothing, it’s not important, you can go –,”

“Oh. Alright.”

“I mean – not ‘you can go’, just – _you can go_. Like, you can say whatever you were going to say. Before.”

“I wasn’t really gonna say anything. I thought you were gonna say something.”

Karkat drags a hand down his face. “This is fucking stupid.” Agreed. “Alright – okay, I’m just gonna start talking then, and you –,” He frowns. “Do you have to be… down there?”

You glance over both shoulders, then back up at him. “Where else would I be?”

“I don’t know. It just seems weird.”

“How.”

“I don’t know! Me up here and you… lurking below? You don’t think it’s weird?”

“Not really.” You pause to think for a couple of seconds. “I could go up to my room and we could shout at each other from the windows.”

“That’s not a serious suggestion.”

“What? Yeah it is. We’d be on the same eye level or whatever. Problem solved.”

“No, come on! Just come up here so I can talk to you like a real person.”

Uh. “Yeah, see – you yelled at me the last time I did that, and I dunno if you noticed, but I’m sorta tryin’ to take an indefinite hiatus from pissing you off, so –,”

“ _Dave will you just climb on the fucking roof already._ ”

Well, if he’s gonna yell anyway… you creep over to his porch, carefully set both feet on the railings, reach for the roof and oh shit you’re falling –

You manage to catch yourself, but you’ve got another strip of Karkat’s rain gutter in your hands to show for it. You hear a weary exhale come from somewhere above you. When you successfully heave yourself up on the second try, you find Karkat out on the roof as well, his face buried in his palm.

You wait for him to move his hand, giving the piece of gutter to him with your most sheepish expression. He takes it, and for a second you think maybe he’s just gonna shove you right back off his house. Instead he releases an explosive sigh, navigating around you in order to take a seat. He doesn’t do much else, sitting there with his legs dangling out over the roof’s edge, just taking in the view of the dusky street below. It’s not the most impressive landscape, but you suppose Karkat doesn’t get out for a lot of sightseeing.

After a few uncertain moments you follow suit, sitting cross-legged a few feet away from him. You leave the gap on purpose – you don’t know how pissed he still is at you, and the last thing you want to do is crowd him.

There’s silence for a while, which you’re okay with. It’s what comes after the silence that’s got you worried. Maybe you should take the initiative here, force an apology out before he gets into it – or maybe you owe it to him to allow him to take his time, gather his thoughts and really let you have it when he’s good and ready. No – a preemptive apology would be better, right? Especially now, before he’s asked you for one or says you never offered one, and you lose the chance to make it seem genuine.

He looks at you, and the words – whatever measly ones you came up with – die in your throat. Well – he doesn’t look _right_ at you, not at first. It’s like he’s looking at the space between you. He seems… sad.

Of course, you could be totally wrong about that. You might be misinterpreting his –

“I’m sorry,” Karkat says.

“What?” Nice one, Strider.

But also… what?

“I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean –,” He scrubs a hand across his scalp, leaving his hair even more on end than usual. You have the most preposterous urge to reach out and touch it, which you just barely manage to resist. “I reacted, uh… poorly. To what you said. About, um…”

“Rose?”

“Yeah. Rose.”

He shifts uncomfortably, which reminds you he’s really not the one who should be doing this. “Dude, you don’t have to…” You find yourself trailing off as well. Man, this _is_ hard. “Listen, I shouldn’t have told her, and I shouldn’t have fought with you about it. You had a right to be mad.”

“And you have a right to talk to your friends about whatever you want. Plus, I was being a fucking hypocrite. God knows I’ve had some choice conversations with my friends about _you_.”

“You have?”

He nods, not noticing the small smile creeping across your face. “Look, I can make excuses about being on edge after the… _incident_ that night, and I can blame you for not knowing shit that you didn’t know, but all of that is missing the point. Even the bull with Rose is missing the point.”

…It is? “Then what’s the point,” you ask, suddenly feeling a bit apprehensive.

“The point is,” he says, voice low, “I’ve been making a mess of this from the very beginning. I think you managed to surmise this much, but – I have some… unique issues. It’s a thing. It’s _The Thing_. I couldn’t tell you about it and I still can’t, not really – I always knew that. But I made a mistake. I wanted it both ways with you. I wanted to keep you in the dark _and_ I wanted to hang out all the time. I wanted to live my necessarily abnormal life _and_ I wanted to do normal stuff, all the asinine shit I never used to bother with. Honestly, I never thought I was missing out before. I laid low and I snuck out for the couple of things I thought were worth doing, and that was that. There wasn’t a whole lot that seemed to justify the risk. But, with you… I _wanted_ that stuff. I wanted to go out just to do something stupid, see a movie and walk around for a bit after because maybe then you’d think… it doesn't even matter. I just… I wanted _more_.”

He takes a breath, but it doesn’t look like he’s done. “See, there’s you… and then there’s The Thing. And I’ve been trying to force those pieces together because I like you but… I don’t think they’re compatible. It’s selfish – _I’m_ selfish. _I’m_ reckless. It’s not your fault that operating in that fucked up dynamic blew up in our faces; it’s mine. I’m the one who made it that way.”

“You know, if this is going in the direction I think it’s going, could you like… shove it?”

His eyes go wide with surprise before quickly narrowing at you. “Dave –,”

“I’m just saying,” you interrupt nonchalantly, “that whole self-sacrificing ‘this is for your own good’ trope is hells of played out.”

“Now you’re just fucking around.”

“I’m not.”

“You are!” You can tell he’s trying to restrain himself, but you hear the edge of frustration in his tone despite his best efforts. “You still don’t get it, that’s what I’m trying to say! There’s no way for you to fully understand the position I put you in every time we step outside. You don’t know the risk you’re taking and it isn’t right, I can’t just make that decision for you.”

You shrug. “Sure you can.”

“ _Dave_.”

“This is like an informed consent thing, right? Consider me informed. You got a big bad Thing and it has the potential to cause all kinds of unspeakable mayhem. I’ll sign whatever paperwork you want. Your liabilities are fuckin’ covered.”

“Oh my god, can you be serious for five fucking minutes?”

“I am dead serious dude,” you snap. “You like me. You just said you like me.”

“So what?”

“So fuck everything else. If you wanna talk about it more so crazy shit isn’t constantly blindsiding us, if you wanna set boundaries as far as who _I_ talk about it with, we can have those conversations. But _you like me_ , so _fuck it_. I’m not afraid of the troll stormtroopers or whatever the fuck else is out there. And that’s not me being immature, or naïve, or _uneducated_ ,” you add fiercely. “You’re not the only one with A Thing, Karkat.”

He blinks at you, his expression mostly blank. You take a few deep breaths, then remember something else that you planned to say.

“And I like you too.”

There’s a long pause after that. The night breeze picks up, pulling at your dirty t-shirt and making you shiver. When it dies down, Karkat says, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. You’ve successfully browbeaten me into continuing this… whatever the hell this is. Congratulations.”

Oh. That was… maybe easier than you thought it would be. “Well. Good.”

“I mean, I think you’re being monumentally stupid. Let’s be clear about that, in the interest of kicking off this new era of improved communication between the two of us.”

“I’ll make a note that you were exceptionally clear about it,” you say, and he shakes his head.

“I don’t know why I fucking bother,” he mumbles, but you think – _you think_ – that you see the corner of his mouth lift, just for a moment before he gets it under control.

The breeze lifts once more, making you shiver again. The space you left between you and Karkat seems so conspicuous now, and under the guise of easing your cramping hamstrings you shift closer to him, dangling your legs over the side of the roof, bumping your shoulder against his. He’s warm as a space heater in his big black sweater, and the shivers quickly subside.

“I’m not trying to ruin the moment by bringing this up, so if you don’t wanna talk about it just tell me to shut my trap –,”

“Can do,” he interjects, and you cut him a flat look.

“ _But_ ,” you continue, “Rose did say that I could, uh… give you her chat handle. If you think talking to her or interrogating her or whatever will make you feel better about her… y’know. Knowing.”

Even in the dark you can see the way his face flushes. “No, I don’t need that; if you trust her then, okay. She’s your friend.”

“I mean, she’s not just a friend.”

“Oh.” He looks confused for a moment before a horrific sort of realization starts to dawn on him. “ _Oh!_ So she’s your – I didn’t know that you… _wow_ , okay –,”

“Dude. She’s my sister.”

He turns his head so fast it gives _you_ whiplash. “She’s your what?”

“Well, twin sister technically. Similar idea though.”

Karkat just gapes at you. “Since when do you have…” he trails off, eyes flicking from you over to your house. Some horror comes creeping back into his expression after a few seconds. “Holy hell, does she live there too?”

“What – no! Dude, c’mon –,”

“Oh Jesus.” He rests a hand over his heart and breathes a sigh of utter relief. “I swear if there were two of you in there this whole time I was gonna fucking lose it.”

“That is so fucking ridiculous man, and I thought _I_ didn’t pay attention to shit. You are the chief executive officer of not knowing what the fuck is going on around you.”

“How the hell am I supposed to know who you’ve got stashed away in there! It could be the clown car version of a fucking house, there could be fifty of you crammed inside the walls!”

“You’ve been in my house multiple times.”

“Oh, like that really means anything!”

And that…

Well mostly it just doesn’t make sense.

And for a second you feel like keeping up the charade, letting the nonsensical banter ebb and flow endlessly because that’s just sort of your thing – but it suddenly strikes you how incredible it is that this is even happening. You don’t know if you expected this to happen _ever_ , much less as you were taking the trash out tonight. There’s something about it that you don’t know what to do with, something ludicrous and wonderful that leaves you unable to do anything other than tip your head back and _laugh._

Karkat seems startled by the sound at first. Then he just shakes his head, doing a really piss poor job of pretending he doesn’t want to grin like an idiot. You know better, though.

When you’re all done, ribs sore and eyes almost wet, he asks, “So if Rose is your sister, and she’s not in there… where is she?”

Normally a question along those lines would go a ways toward sobering your good mood. Tonight, you just shrug it off. “It’s complicated.”

He nods, but you can tell he wants to pose a follow-up. You raise an eyebrow at him, hoping he’ll take it as a sign to spit it out. Tentatively, he asks, “Is it your Thing?”

You take a few moments to chew that one over. “I guess it’s not unrelated. Sorta one, big, interconnected clusterfuck.”

He doesn’t respond to that right away, content to simply observe you for a while. You sit there and try not to feel too self-conscious under his gaze, wondering how many questions you’ll be able to answer before you inevitably clam up about it.

Turns out you shouldn’t have worried, because the next thing he asks is, “And why the fuck are you so dirty?”

The change of subject is a welcome surprise, and you grin at him appreciatively. “I told you, I was cleaning today.”

“I don’t get it, did you use your body as the mop? You’re fucking gross, Dave.”

“The house was dirty, and what I am is fucking _scrupulous_. I’d invite royalty over and serve them dinner straight off the bathroom floor, and it would be the most hygienic meal of their goddamn life, okay. If webcomics and general internet stardom don’t work out for me, I could make a future out of this instead.”

“You’d pursue a future in… the professional cleaning industry? They’re like minimum wage gigs if you’re _lucky_.”

“Not the way I’d do it. You don’t understand this yet, but I’m basically destined to be some kind of mogul. A real titan of industry, y’know. Start out with super humble beginnings, all cleaning public toilets ‘n’ shit, and next thing you know – WHAM! There I am cleaning, like, the White House, or something.”

“Uh-huh,” he deadpans. “I’m glad we’ve already made our way back to utter panshitting nonsense, seems like it’s probably in record time – although I have to say, I would kill to see you in a maid uniform.”

“Karkat,” you say, leaning forward delightedly, “do mine ears deceive me, or was that just the slightest bit saucy?”

The blood rushes to his face immediately, but he tries to play it off. “Don’t be an idiot, you know that’s not what I meant.”

“I don’t know anything about anything, but what I’m _hearing_ is that visions of a certain neighbor boy in a sexy French maid costume might be visiting another certain troll kid’s dreams tonight. Do I have that about right?”

“No, because what _I’m_ hearing is a certain neighbor boy flapping his inutile gums, practically begging to get shoved off a certain troll kid’s roof.”

“No offense, but I think you need hearing aids, man –,” He actually does shove your shoulder now. You snort, grinning at him, and he rolls his eyes in exasperation.

You’re right in the middle of coming up with some other playful quip when you hear what sounds like knocking. You stop, trying to pinpoint the origin of the noise, when a muffled voice calls, “ _Karkat?”_

You and Karkat turn towards his window in unison. You realize what’s happening – it’s gotta be Kankri knocking on Karkat’s bedroom door – right as Karkat whispers, “Shit.”

Then there’s a sudden pressure on the small of your back, and you really are falling off the roof.

For a moment you lose yourself, just after your hands scrabble for desperate purchase only to find nothing but open air to grasp. The only thing you see is sky, hanging black and purple above you like a giant bruise. It’s clear, yet starless – light pollution from the surrounding sprawl bleeding into the atmosphere, blotting out the cosmos – and then everything gets dark.

“ _Holy shit,”_ you hear someone hiss above you, “oh my god, holy shit, are you okay? Did I just fucking kill you? Oh my god. You’re dead, aren’t you? Oh god, oh god, I’m so fucking sorry –,”

“S’alright,” you wheeze. You mean, you _think_ you’re alright. You’re flat on your back without truly knowing how you got there, and the wind’s been knocked right the fuck out of your lungs, but… you wiggle some toes on both feet, then try moving your arms. “’M not paralyzed,” you gasp, because you think you should probably share the good news.

You’re not even sure if he hears you over his own panic. “I don’t know what I was thinking, it was just a reflex, _I am so sorry_ –,”

“Karkat,” another voice interrupts, and you hear it more clearly than before, even though you’re down on the ground now, “where… are you out on the roof?”

You force your eyes open just in time to see Karkat, who’s hanging over the edge of the roof in a frantic effort to check on you, go completely rigid. Kankri must’ve just walked into his room when he didn’t answer. “Uh,” Karkat says, eyes flicking away from you in the direction of the window, “no?”

The overhang shields the window from view, so you can’t see Kankri and he can’t see you. Still, your pulse flutters nervously when that unfamiliar voice asks, “What are you doing out there?”

“Um. I’m, uh –,” This could be a real disaster. Karkat is fucking abysmal at lying, and even worse at it when he tries to do it on the fly. You want to help him, but you think staying out of sight is probably the best you can do for him in this situation. Also, you’re still in some shock from falling off a building and everything, so lying here quietly just feels sorta nice. “I was just, um… grabbing this piece of gutter!”

He gives you one last apologetic glance, and then pulls his head out of sight.

“I saw it dangling there, so,” you hear him continue, “figured I’d just go grab it before it fell off!”

“Well… okay…” Kankri says, and you don’t know the first fucking thing about him, but it sounds like he thinks Karkat’s acting weird. It’s a highly defensible reaction. Who knows, maybe you’ve been misjudging him and he’s a perfectly normal guy after all. “They must have been installed incorrectly, that’s the second time one of them has fallen off lately.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Karkat replies quickly, and their voices sound like they’re getting further away. You think you hear the sound of the window closing, and everything gets quiet.

You stay put, lying there in a daze. You keep waiting for something on your body to erupt in agonizing pain, but it never comes. Lucky break.

There’s that feeling again, the one from before – that ludicrous, giddy feeling, bubbling up your throat until all you can do is laugh. You must lay there for another ten minutes, laughing.

Maybe you’re just losing your fucking mind.

The possibility doesn’t bother you a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i officially had to split this chapter in half cuz it was just gettin to be too much... which'll make ch 6 something of a part 2. hmhmhm!!!


	6. Chapter 6

gardenGnostic [GG] began pestering  turntechGodhead [TG]

GG: hi!!!!!!  
TG: uh  
TG: hey  
GG: feeling cool today?  
GG: mr cool guy?  
TG: well yeah obviously  
GG: :D  
TG: so  
TG: am i supposed to have any idea who this is  
GG: no!!  
TG: oh ok good  
TG: lemme guess youre a fan of my work  
TG: i mean thats cool and all but i dont get how you people keep finding my handle  
GG: er.......  
GG: sorry dave but i dont think i understand a lot of your work <_<   
GG: so im not really a fan!  
GG: im just a friend :)  
TG: bs if youve seen my shit youre a fan of my shit i dont buy it  
TG: and i dont think you can be a friend if i dont know you  
TG: but you sure seem to know me  
GG: hehehe yes i do!!  
TG: ok  
TG: mind explaining how  
GG: no!!!!!!  
GG: i mean yes i mind ._.  
GG: its not time for that yet  
GG: in fact i shouldnt even be doing this!  
GG: but im breaking the rules :D  
TG: thats definitely a whole bunch of crazy shit you said just now  
TG: what rules  
GG: i cant say!!  
TG: of course  
GG: what i can say is  
GG: i know things have been hard in the past  
GG: and to be honest they will probably get even harder in the future!  
GG: and its okay to be afraid  
GG: but you will have to be brave too okay?  
TG: wtf  
TG: im not afraid of anything  
TG: who the fuck is this  
GG: i already told you!!!!  
GG: i am your friend  
GG: and luckily, i dont think being brave will be much of a problem for you at all :)  
GG: we will talk again but now i have to go!  
TG: no wait  
TG: hold on a fucking minute  
GG: <3 

gardenGnostic [GG] ceased pestering  turntechGodhead [TG]

\--

Alright, well.

That one was kinda weird.

You run the chat handle by Karkat, wondering if it might be one of those troll friends he mentioned, but he says it’s not one he’s ever seen before – and besides, what the fuck do you think he spends all his time doing exactly, just passing out your contact information to every random asshole who sends a spam email his way? Rose says she doesn’t recognize the handle either when you ask her about it, nor does she cop to the whole thing being some pseudopsychoanalytic exercise of her own design – and no, it’s not a prank either, because she doesn’t make a habit of engaging in that kind of juvenile tomfoolery; and if by chance she _did_ , it wouldn’t be for a prank as stupid as this. Honestly, give her a little credit.

Both stories check out as far as you’re concerned, and eventually you dismiss the whole thing as just another raving lunatic emerging from the bowels of the deep web to give you shit. It’s a phenomenon with which you have ample experience, regrettably. Let no one be caught in your earshot saying modest web fame doesn’t have its price.

Even if the conversation does unsettle you for reasons you can’t quite seem to put your finger on, it’s not like it’s the most disturbing chat you’ve ever had with an internet stranger before. It doesn’t even crack the top twenty when you think about it. And so, after a few days of doing just that, your interest in the mysterious messenger slowly starts to fade.

You know how that sounds, coming from you – like, really? You’re not gonna follow up on that pulsating quagmire of ‘what the fuck’ at all? But listen, you _really_ think you oughta cut yourself some slack on this one. You’re still actively dealing with the vulgar gray fallout of the last great mystery you tried to solve.

The first time Karkat comes over following your rooftop reconciliation, he spends no less than twenty minutes gaping at the new and improved casa de Strider. He treats himself to a tour of the place, remarking in a somewhat impressed manner on your ability to convert crack house chic interior design into a more traditional asylum décor. You respond with something along the lines of ‘hey remember that time you pushed me off a goddamn roof’ and he lapses into an embarrassed silence, eventually breaking it to tell you in a soft tone that he thinks the place looks nice.

Things settle into a routine shortly after, with Karkat making his way to your house whenever Kankri isn’t around – and even on some occasions when he is. You ask about it once and he shrugs, saying Kankri’s so focused on preparing for his lecture the next morning that he wouldn’t notice if a bomb went off in the backyard, much less that Karkat isn’t squirreled away in his bedroom as per usual. You nod and don’t ask again.

Karkat barely bothers with knocking anymore – most of the time you realize he’s there only after he starts cursing at the television in the living room, or else when you hear his heavy footsteps coming up the stairs towards your room.

He really manages to stomp around for a guy his size.

Frequently you’ll watch a movie (or two or three), but even for a couple of honest-to-god cinephiles it becomes difficult to fill _all_ that time strictly with motion pictures. Some days you branch out into dramatic television series – that, and cooking competition shows, which you suppose qualify as a subset of TV drama. Karkat usually insists on ordering takeout while you watch, because unfortunately he’s gotten wise to the fact that humans don’t typically survive on a diet comprised solely of high fructose corn syrup and artificial food coloring, and searching through the meager contents of your kitchen depresses him almost as much as those humane society commercials about starving kids in foreign countries. You think he’s a little too serious about the grocery store lady’s request that he not allow you to always eat garbage – like you’re honestly the first person to have a tub of peanut butter and a gallon of apple juice for dinner; hello, both those things are _good for you_ – but at the same time, who are you to say no to recurrent offers of hot pizza and lo mein?

“You realize this isn’t exactly health food either, right,” you say one night around a mouthful of pork dumpling.

“I’m aware,” he grumbles, reaching for an egg roll, “I just think you should take wiggler steps into the exciting world of real fucking food before we jump to kale salad with cold quinoa.”

Good point. Also, you should probably cool it on the _Hell’s Kitchen_ for a while before he starts getting some truly outlandish ideas for meals to try. “Kinda funny that Gordon Ramsay is a valid troll name, huh? Maybe you two are related,” you say, and he throws the egg roll at you.

Other times you work on your comics, railroading Karkat into helping you after you discover he’s quite possibly the worst artist on the face of the planet. Oh sure, you fake a good game – you fake a _great_ game, who the fuck are you kidding – but there’s intentionally bad art scummed up with compression artifacts, and then there’s what Karkat does. His lack of talent is nothing short of divine. His work is inspiring in its utter absence of inspiration, moving in its sheer inability to move. Once you pull up _The Starry Night_ on your computer and give him two hours to recreate it on paper as closely as he can. The result brings tears to your eyes for the first time in recent memory.

Then there are the times when you don’t do much of anything in particular. He’ll come trudging into your room while you’re messing with your turntables or tuning a guitar, dropping onto your bed with a grunt of greeting – or else nothing at all. Sometimes he immediately turns his attention to the novel (often of the romantic variety) held tightly in his grasp, propping a pillow against the wall to cushion his back while he reads for literal hours. You’ve seen him finish entire books in a single sitting on multiple occasions. You have no idea how he strings together the required concentration for so long.

When there’s no book – or magazine, or addicting game on his phone, or what have you – he’ll just lie on your bed and stare at the ceiling. You think sometimes he’s coming to you fresh off a disagreement with Kankri when he’s like this, or that at the very least he’s preoccupied by some irritating stimulus or another in his private life. His brows will be furrowed, his mouth twisted in a vague scowl, and he might not say anything for a solid hour. You’ve learned to just leave him be, playing your music until his feet inevitably start tapping in time with the beat, until he eventually rolls over and informs you that this song isn’t as good as the last one – and whatever happened to what you were working on last week, some of _that_ stuff almost made him _not_ want to rip his auricular sponge clots right out of his skull. You call him a heathen and assert that your flow is as consistently sick as his dumb troll terminology is unnecessarily verbose, and the two of you banter back and forth for a bit before he’s joining you at the table and you’re passing him a pair of headphones, dark mood all but forgotten. Days like that end up being some of your favorites.

But while the days and weeks pass in charming little slice-of-life installments, and while your interest in the strange Pesterchum conversation wavers and ultimately wanes, _something_ continues to niggle at you, scratching at your consciousness in isolated moments that otherwise threaten to be perfectly mundane. Sometimes, you pretend not to understand what’s bothering you.

_(I’m not afraid of anything.)_

Most times, you know exactly what it is.

In the end, you guess that’s how you got to where you are now.

Weekends are when you see Karkat the least – Kankri’s usually home, and perhaps not as distracted as he often is during the week. The result is more or less two days of solitude; you find yourself increasingly bored out of your mind for the duration, which is sort of baffling given the fact that you spent _years_ on your own before this. You turn that oddity over in your head for a bit, and when that gets old your thoughts wander elsewhere – far and wide until they land _here_ , always right fucking here.

You’re standing outside the closed door on the second floor, and for the thousandth time you’re trying to decide if today’s actually the day. The past nine hundred ninety-nine times have all gone the same way – but it’s not because you’re scared. That is not why.

It’s _not._

If you were scared – if, _if_ – then you would just admit it, and that would be the end of it. It wouldn’t be a big deal or anything. People have fears and phobias – strong people, grown people, it doesn’t matter. That’s just a part of life, and if it were the case for you here you would say so. But what’s there to be afraid of? It’s just a door, and behind it is just a room. You don’t know why your hand is shaking on the doorknob, but it sure as shit ain’t fear. It wouldn’t make any sense. You’re not afraid of any stupid door, or any stupid room.

You’re not fucking afraid of _anything_.

Your hand turns on angry impulse, and just like that the door yawns open, hinges groaning with disuse. After what feels like an eternity, it thuds to a stop against the wall.

When you realize you’ve stopped breathing, you hurry to swallow a fresh gulp of air. _Not afraid_ , you think again, over the refrain of your heart pounding in your chest as you take a cautious step inside.

You’ve lived in this house for the better part of a decade now, alone for about half that time. Since you’ve been alone, you haven’t stepped into this room once. You weren’t inside all that often before that, either.

You don’t know what you expect to find – will it be ransacked, bearing all the evidence of someone uprooting their life and vanishing in a single night? Will there be spikes on the walls and booby traps in the shadows? Will there be something left behind for you – a note of explanation, an ancient and powerful relic? You’ve imagined one of those big conspiracy corkboards on the walls, with pictures of politicians and business leaders and crime lords all connected with bits of red thread – it always seemed like a ham-handed piece of spy thriller fantasy on your part, but hey. It could be anything, right?

The reality is something considerably less sensational. There’s an unmade bed, sheets and covers left in a tangle from the last time they were used, and a futon pushed against the near wall. There are dirty socks on the floor and a couple of folded white shirts on the nightstand. There’s an Xbox plugged into a dated television, a mixer plugged into some old amps, and piles of baseball hats and fat-assed plush toys that inspire competing desires to shudder but also to roll your eyes. A hulking shape in the corner momentarily spikes your blood pressure, but even that just looks like a weird seven-foot tall mannequin of sorts.

It’s just an average fucking bedroom. An average bedroom belonging to someone with eccentric tastes, maybe, but average all the same.

Your legs carry you deeper into the room of their own volition, until you find yourself sitting on the futon. The shades are drawn over the windows, and the room is dark and smells strongly of dust. You press your palms to your eyes behind the sunglasses, your elbows resting on your knees.

You feel like an idiot and you don’t even know why.

…Well.

You guess you kind of know why.

He just – he really didn’t leave anything for you, did he. You should feel relieved – if he _had_ seen fit to leave something behind, the chances that it would be something you’d want anything to do with are pretty much astronomical. Not that hypotheticals even matter, since you can now confirm that the only thing left behind was you.

You dig the heels of your hands harder against your eyes, until bright spots begin to flash against the backs of your eyelids. Nothing you do ever helps. Nothing makes you feel better. You avoid this place for half your life and feel like shit about it – you finally work up the nerve to walk in after years and feel like shit about it. Nothing changes, nothing solves your problem.

“I don’t know what my fucking problem _is_ ,” you say out loud, and in a way you hope the room will just answer you, give you a hint the way a game master in an escape room might. If there are secret cameras and microphones hidden in here, there’s either no one on the other end of them, or they simply don’t give a shit about you. The room stays quiet.

You drag your hands down your face, leaning back in the seat. Motes of dust erupt from the cushion with the movement, tickling your sinuses.

Whatever.

It’s fine.

You finally opened the door and it was a big fat anticlimax and now you can move on with your life. In a lot of ways this is the best possible outcome.

If you spend enough time repeating that line in your head, you might just start to believe it. Then again, you don’t actually care either way.

You push yourself up from the futon, fully intending to leave the room and close the door behind you – most likely for good. There’s really no reason for you to come back, save maybe jacking those amps… at this point the ones you already have may be superior, but you could always try them out –

You stop when a glint on the wall catches your eye.

Hanging between two ironic horse posters (you’re making the executive assumption that they’re ironic, in any case) is a sword, mounted on the wall with a pair of simple black hooks. It’s not the blade itself that grabs your attention – there were enough of those lying around the house prior to your recent cleaning spree that you’ve become numb to the sight of them – but rather the hilt, golden and ornate, twisted in an exotic shape that reminds you of flames.

You haven’t seen a sword quite like this one around here before. It doesn’t look like a miserable piece of shit for one thing; for another, it doesn’t quite fit the model of Japanese-inspired fake ninja swords that always seemed to be the standard for other weapons in the house. You’re held in place for a moment as you stare at it, torn between curiosity and your seemingly boundless appetite for disappointment.

Your legs make the decision for you once again, carrying you across the room until the sword’s inches from the tip of your nose. You aren’t stupid, despite all recent evidence to the contrary. You know you’re grasping at straws here – or grasping at replica swords, or whatever; you know the only reason it would’ve been left behind is that it must be worthless, same as everything else around here despite the fancy handle. You _know_ this.

You reach out and pull it down from the wall anyway.

It really does seem to be of some quality, based on your admittedly limited ability to judge such characteristics. It’s light, yet balanced, the weight of it distributed evenly between hilt and blade. You give it a casual twirl, wrapping your fingers around the grip and swinging it once, twice – enjoying the crisp hum of steel cutting through the air like an easily impressed child.

 _Not a toy_ , a dusty old voice in your head whispers in disapproval, and you glance guiltily over your shoulder before you remember that you’re alone.

All in all, it doesn’t seem like a half bad sword. If things had stayed normal, you probably would’ve taken it back to your room as a memento of sorts – a reminder of a past life, now long gone.

Things, however, are not so inclined to stay normal.

You don’t know when you become aware of it, exactly. You feel the hair rising on the back of your neck before you consciously see or hear anything, followed by a sick, seizing feeling in the pit of your stomach, like the floor’s dropped out from under you, one that aches with familiarity and a bone-deep dread. Something’s behind you and you have to find out what it is, but a momentary paralysis has stricken you to your core and you don’t know if you can do it, you’re rooted to this spot and you _can’t_ , you won’t ever be able to turn around and face it –

 _Move_ , the dusty old voice commands, forceful and unpitying, and you obey because it’s the only coherent thought in your head – it’s a lifeline and you grab hold of it eagerly, a semblance of physical control returning to your body as you spin around on the balls of your feet.

It’s just a shape in the shadowy darkness of the room at first, shuffling towards you with slow, heavy footsteps. You have both hands on the sword grip now, pointing the blade at the approaching figure. The tip shakes a bit before you remind yourself that you _know_ how to hold a sword steady, at which point it goes obediently still.

It’s the mannequin, you realize – what you _thought_ was a mannequin, dark and tall and stuffed quietly away in the corner. You don’t know what it is now – a person, a creature, a robot – but it’s _coming_ , ambling towards you until it suddenly isn’t, stopping mere feet away. You hold your breath and wait, every cell in your body screaming for a fight or flight response, seemingly unable to settle on one over the other.

For several moments you stand there facing each other, you and this thing. It lasts long enough that you almost start to wonder if this is some kind of joke – maybe it’ll start rapping at you or something, wouldn’t that be fucking typical? You’re just on edge, assuming the worst in an intense situation.

Finally it speaks, in a bizarre, gravelly voice that can’t possibly be human. _“Cease reproduction,”_ it says, and you have just a second to think that it’s an odd choice of words.

Then it rushes you.

It’s fucking fast, or you’re caught off guard, or more likely some combination of the two. All you feel is a blow to your abdomen – you don’t know if it’s a fist or a foot – and you’re flying backwards, crashing through something that sounds like glass when it shatters, tumbling ass over teakettle and then _falling_ –

Next thing you know you’re laying on the ground, and the wind’s knocked out of your lungs, and the world is so much _brighter_ than it was a moment ago – the sunlight’s streaming into your eyes, and the sky is picture-perfect blue above you, and you clench your fist in the grass and dirt below – and you realize, after a moment, that you just went out the fucking window and are laying in your backyard.

Then, in the next moment, you remember what put you there.

You scramble onto your hands and knees, barely managing to pull yourself out of the way as the thing lands with an earthshaking crash on the spot you just vacated.

The sunlight illuminates it more effectively than the dimness of the bedroom, but you still have no idea what it is you’re looking at. It’s huge, easily several feet taller than you, its humanoid body plated in overlapping layers of spiky black armor. Spikes seem to be a theme, actually – there are a couple of them poking off its shoulder blades, several more sticking out of the thing’s weird, flat head, and one spike each sprouting from its wrists, which look perfect for tearing flesh in combat. You figure this is an important observation, since the one thing you’re pretty much sure of is that this thing is trying to kill you.

 _“Submit,”_ it rumbles in that same strange gravel, and then it lunges at you.

You dive out of the way just in time once again, but you know you can’t keep this up. At some point you’ll have to attack, and given the armor on this thing you’re going to need a weapon when you do it. You had that sword in your hands before you got dropkicked out the fucking window; where did it go –

You spot it lying in the grass close to where you originally landed, sunlight glinting off the gilded handle, making it look like it’s on fire. You lurch to your feet, a rapidly formulating plan pushing the dregs of uncertainty and inaction from your mind.

You’re ready for it when it comes this time. You wait until the last possible moment, leaping out of the way just as it swings one of its long arms towards your face. You roll across the ground on your shoulders, pop back onto your feet, and then you’re off and running, reaching for the sword, grabbing it and pivoting to face the monster and –

You realize something’s wrong as soon as you pick the sword up. The balance is off, when it had been so perfect before – now the hilt feels weighty in your hand, much heavier in comparison with the blade. You look down, and the source of the problem becomes evident quite quickly.

There’s only about half of a blade left. The other half is still lying in the grass, and unless you can come up with a way to weld a sword back together in under seven seconds, it isn’t gonna do you much good.

 _Fuck_.

“Okay, uh,” you say, as the thing draws nearer, “do you like, shut off or something?” No answer. “Uh, how ‘bout – end training session. Disengage murder mode.” It takes another step in your direction. “Enable emergency override? I don’t know, just stop being an asshole!”

It stops about an arm’s length away from you.

Holy shit.

You can’t believe that worked –

_“Cease reproduction.”_

Suddenly, you find a large, armor-plated hand fisted in the front of your shirt. The thing heaves its upper body, then throws you straight through one of the wooden fences lining your backyard.

You end up on your back again, a bit preoccupied with the aches and pains associated with being tossed around like a junkyard dog’s chew toy for the second time in a span of three minutes.

Also, you think you might have swallowed a splinter.

You try to set your hands underneath you while you catch your breath, maybe push yourself up onto your elbows. You know you’re taking too long to recover, moving too slowly in general, but fuck – you’re not a machine, and the physical battering is starting to take its toll.

Still, it’s a surprise when that armored hand wraps itself around your throat, grinding you into the dirt below. You had no idea the thing was literally on top of you. How can it be so big, so fast, and so goddamn quiet at the same time?

You guess that’s not the most pressing issue for you right now, though.

The hand on your throat squeezes, and some animal instinct in your brain starts to recognize that you’re in genuine trouble here. You try to pry the fingers loose, but it’s useless – you still don’t know if this thing’s mechanical, but at this point it might as well be. The hand is as firm as iron, and it isn’t budging.

You try not to panic, but it’s hard when you find yourself running out of both options and oxygen. You struggle without much thought but with plenty of enthusiasm, squirming and kicking and generally being a nuisance, and when the thing adjusts its hold on you, for a second you think it might be working – but all it does is pick you up, lifting your whole body off the ground before unceremoniously slamming you back down. Your head and spine take the brunt of the impact, and at that point you must stop struggling – your vision goes black, your ears ring, your chest feels close to bursting, and all the while the hand at your throat tightens.

So this is really how you’re gonna die, huh. This is end of ol’ Dave Strider.

How fucking uncool is that? If you weren’t being strangled to death, you might laugh about it.

It’d be somewhat bitter laughter, of course, but still.

And then – right when you’re on the very edge of losing consciousness – the pressure at your windpipe vanishes.

You roll onto your side, curling in a loose ball as a violent coughing fit wracks your chest. You don’t know what happened, and at this precise moment you’re not sure you care.

God you missed breathing. Talk about not appreciating something ‘til it’s gone.

Once the desperate burning in your lungs dies down a bit you roll over again, finally cracking an eyelid open in the interest of finding out what exactly just happened. Your vision’s blurry at first, but you think you see the big, dark shape of the monster-thing looming nearby. You blink a few times and the picture clears up, enough so that you’re able to recognize that the thing is no longer alone.

Because there’s Karkat, holding a floor lamp like a baseball bat, his face twisted in a perfect representation of the universal feeling of ‘oh shit’, steadily backing away as the thing advances on him.

 _“Embrace your culling,”_ it rumbles, and Karkat’s jaw drops a little. He stumbles on his next step back, and though he ultimately manages to stay upright, you still find your heart lodged firmly in your aching throat as a result.

Apparently this whole situation isn’t quite FUBARed enough, though, because next thing you know a voice is saying, “Karkat, what on earth is going on out there –,”

You turn and see Kankri standing at the open back door, gaping soundlessly now at the wannabe leviathan currently menacing his… whatever Karkat actually is to him. There must be some kind of blood relation, you note distantly as you watch. He looks exactly how you imagine Karkat would look in a decade or so.

Karkat is not nearly as distracted by Kankri’s appearance as you are, and it’s a lucky thing he isn’t. He forgets about the lamp in his hands altogether, dropping it with a clatter that shatters the light bulb within, taking off in Kankri’s direction just as the monster lunges for him. It only misses by a matter of inches.

“Karkat –,” Kankri starts to exclaim as Karkat arrives at his side, only for Karkat to immediately place two hands on the other’s chest and _shove_.

Kankri stumbles backwards with a yelp, basically falling into the house, and Karkat slams the door behind him – curiously choosing to remain on the outside. The thing is coming for him again, approaching in his blind spot; you make a ragged sound of warning and Karkat pivots in response, the movement helping him to avoid the thing’s incoming fist in another miraculous stroke of fortune. The fist crashes straight through the closed door, rather than straight through his skull.

Okay.

Time to move.

You cast around for your broken-ass sword, figuring it’s better than nothing. The monster’s arm is temporarily stuck in the hole it made through the door, and Karkat’s just standing next to it, staring at it as though in a trance. What he _needs_ to be doing is running the fuck away, Jesus Christ – you find your sword and appear at his side a moment later, and you think in all the excitement he may have literally forgotten about you, because he jumps about a mile when you grab him by the hand.

“C’mon,” you urge, pulling him away, and after the briefest moment of hesitation he follows you.

You run towards the hole that your body made in the fence, your grip on Karkat ensuring that he has no choice but to keep up. “What the fuck is that thing?” he asks from behind you, loud and stressed.

“How the hell should I know?” you respond over your shoulder, your voice hoarse from the abuse your throat has taken.

“Hm, let me think about that – oh yeah, _because it’s trying to fucking kill you!_ What did you do?!”

“Why do you immediately assume I did something! I was mindin’ my own business dude, it just started freaking out!”

“Well where the fuck did it even come from?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know, it was in Bro’s room –,”

“What?” You’re approaching your own back door now, and you turn to see Karkat looking _up_ , right at the busted out window on the second floor. He’s putting the pieces together, and it’s gonna lead to another whole round of questions, and you just don’t have time for this bullshit.

You ease your hand from his and open the door, employing your most commanding voice when you tell him, “Go inside.”

He tilts his head at you like a confused dog, hearing a new sound for the first time. “What?” he says again.

“Don’t come out until I say it’s clear.” You pause for a moment, then add, “Unless it comes in after you, in which case I’m dead and run for your life.”

_“What?”_

Seriously, you do not have the time. “Karkat, go.”

“I…” He trails off, and you know you’re in trouble when his expression goes from relatively wide-eyed to stubbornly suspicious. “…No!”

For the love of god – “Hey man, wasn’t really a suggestion –,”

“Fuck that, I’m not going anywhere!” He jabs a finger into your chest. “I just saved your fucking life, stop acting like you’re in charge of shit!”

“Yeah, I appreciate that and all,” you say, and you manage to maintain a relatively even tone despite the fact that you can feel your eye twitching, “but I still can’t cover both our asses at once, so if you don’t mind –,”

He’s not even listening to you, shaking his head in frustration. “What’s the plan here, Dave? What are you going to do exactly? You’re gonna take it on alone with your half a fucking sword –,” he makes a disparaging gesture at the weapon in your hands, “– and just hope it doesn’t rip your limbs off in the meantime? Because let me tell you, from an outside perspective it didn’t look like that was working too well for you before! No, listen,” he reaches out to tug on your elbow now, and the earnest look on his face quells any intention you had of interrupting, “I think you were on to something with the whole ‘running away’ thing, how about we take a more honest stab at that instead?”

…It’s not the worst idea you’ve ever heard. If the two of you just took off, there’s at least a chance you could give it the slip – at some point it’d have to get tired or distracted. And yeah, it’d probably just start attacking someone else if you weren’t around anymore… but they’d be _normal_ people, who would do something perfectly quotidian like call the police about it, and with all their manpower and firepower they’d have to be able to bring it down eventually. Of course, there’s the strong likelihood that some of those perfectly normal people will wind up as collateral damage before the ordeal is through, but if it means you and Karkat are safe, you can live with that, right?

…Right?

“Dave,” Karkat urges, a pleading note in his voice, and you turn to look him in the eye, honestly torn.

Then your time is well and truly up – the monster comes lumbering back through the fence, heading straight for the two of you, and you know with sudden certainty that you won’t be running away. This is your responsibility.

“Just stay back,” you tell Karkat as you square up to the thing, brandishing your mess of a blade. To answer his previous question, you don’t really know what the plan is. You’re not sure how you’re gonna beat this thing.

You’re just gonna have to go do it.

It makes the first move and you dodge, ducking under the outstretched arm that comes hurtling towards your face. You parry the follow-up attack as well, your sword skittering along the thing’s plated forearm as you deflect the effort, turning and _thrusting_ at its belly when it appears to leave its midsection unprotected – but your blade simply bounces away from that as well, the armor covering its abdomen too thick for your broken steel to pierce. You blow a frustrated breath out through your teeth – this thing doesn’t do much by way of defensive posturing, but it doesn’t need to. The armor’s strong enough to make up for the fact that it leaves itself wide open to counterattacks while it’s on the offensive.

You, however, sorely lack that same advantage.

Your missed thrust has brought you in too close, and you know you’re in trouble before you hear Karkat’s wordless shout – you spin, and the downswing of the thing’s arm only glances across your face, though it comes down pretty hard on your left shoulder. You guess that’s better than shattering your spine, you think as you stumble backwards.

Your face burns a bit, and your shoulder is fairly screaming, but you aren’t out of commission just yet. Which is why it’s so annoying when the thing turns away from you completely, taking a step in Karkat’s direction instead.

“No, over here you prick,” you call, but it’s no use – it’s fixated on Karkat, who _really should have listened_ when you told him to go the fuck inside, because if he had, you wouldn’t be throwing your entire body at the back of the monster-thing’s knees right now in a last-ditch effort to knock it to the ground.

It goes down, and for a second you allow yourself to think, hey, that actually worked! It’s a phrase you seriously have to consider removing from usage altogether, because right as you’re rolling back to your feet, the thing’s lower leg catches you directly across the chest.

You sort of wonder just how many times you can get the wind knocked out of you – or choked out of you, you guess – before your lungs just up and quit on you completely.

Because seriously.

What the fuck.

Can’t stay down too long, or else you’re gonna have a repeat of that shit from earlier, and this thing clearly does not give a fuck about safewords – you wipe some dirt off your face, turning over onto your stomach only to see the thing moving in Karkat’s direction _again_.

“Motherfucker,” you mutter, pushing yourself up as the sound of Karkat cursing the thing out fills your ears – apparently he’s just completely fucking lost it now, which is wonderful.

“Okay fine, shitwipe! You want it so bad, come and fucking get it,” he shouts, despite having no weapon in his hands, and no exceptional fighting prowess so far as you’re aware. So much for staying back.

Still, he’s standing there facing the thing down like he _does_ have any of that going for him, to the point where you have to slide between him and the approaching monster in order to intercept its next blow. Your arm rattles as your sword absorbs the impact, your left shoulder throbbing – your blade slides along the thing’s inner arm mostly on accident as you lose some of your grip on it, wedging itself into the crook of the thing’s elbow –

There’s an earsplitting sound, somewhere between a bird of prey’s call and a cicada’s screech, and the thing takes a few steps back, clutching its arm. You don’t understand what happened until you look at your sword and see a thick, black fluid oozing down the blade. You must’ve gotten the sharp edge between the armored plates at the joint – a weak point, of course, everything has weak points, you just haven’t been _thinking_ –

“Hey,” you say, talking fast because you don’t have much time, but you do have an idea, “run that way.” You point to the far corner of the yard.

Karkat blinks, his expression a blend of frenzied anger and budding confusion. “Why?”

“You wanna help, right.”

“Help how?”

“Distract it for me.”

You think the frenzied anger is probably winning out at this point. “Are you insane? You want me to be bait?”

“You wanna talk about insanity, you were trying to fight it with your bare fuckin’ hands two seconds ago – listen, you don’t wanna go inside, which was my first fucking suggestion? Then fine, yes, be bait for me, pretty please.”

Karkat’s eyebrows knit together, and while you _suppose_ it’s possible that he’s getting ready to agree with you, nice and compliant – well, let’s just say you somehow doubt that’s the case. It doesn’t matter in the end; all three of you – you, Karkat, and the monster-thing – are soon distracted well enough by the inbound piece of broken wooden fencing that goes bouncing off the monster-thing’s head.

Kankri is standing at the opening between your two yards, looking as confused in finding himself there as any of the three of you are to see him. Everything’s very still for a moment – then the monster moves, taking a step in the newcomer’s direction.

“Never mind,” you say easily, “he can be the bait.”

“Dave –,” Karkat begins to protest, but you wave him down, already in motion.

…You really hope this works.

The thing has its back turned to you in the interest of focusing on Kankri, which is exactly what you’d hoped for. You run right at it, grip tight on the handle of your sword.

There are areas that you focus on when engaging in close combat, and it shouldn’t be too surprising that most of them are soft, vital spots – the neck is always a good target, jam-packed with circulatory structures that don’t take too well to a blade ripping them apart. The heart’s another good one, for obvious reasons. Then there’s the lower abdomen, crammed with squishy, life-sustaining organs; the femoral artery in the thigh, the brachial artery along the upper arm; the radial and ulnar nerves in the forearm. If you’re coming from the back, you might aim for the kidneys – people tend to underestimate how fast someone will bleed out if you hit those right. You can also go for the spinal cord, again with precise aim – if you can slip the blade between the vertebrae and sever the cord entirely, they’ll drop like a ton of bricks.

The problem here is that all those soft, vital areas are more or less covered by the monster’s thick armor. So you’re left to take aim at something of a classic, tried and true for effectiveness – given, of course, that the enemy you’re fighting possesses some form of brainstem.

…You really, _really_ hope it has a brainstem, and you’re banking on the armor being thinner on the back of its head than it is on the abdomen or forearms. Then you jump, putting all your power behind a thrust of your broken sword aimed at puncturing the base of the monster’s skull.

There’s a loud, percussive _crack;_ the blade sinks in to the hilt, and then the thing’s falling, and _you’re_ falling, tumbling gracelessly across the ground. You skid to a stop and roll to your knees, spinning to see if its down for good –

Apparently giant monster brainstems don’t function exactly like human ones – or most other living things, for that matter – because if they did, the thing would be _still_. Like, the completely, ‘not one goddamn twitch’ kind of still. As for this thing… it’s moving, but it definitely doesn’t look so good. It’s making a pitiful, high-pitched keening sound, trying to push itself up on its version of hands and knees, your sword still morbidly sticking out of its head – but after a few attempts it collapses. The sounds grow weaker and more pitiful, the movements more erratic… and then, finally, it stops.

You watch for another moment or two, just making sure this isn’t some kind of fake out – maybe it’ll catch a second wind or… grow a second brain, or something. But it looks pretty mortally wounded from what you can tell, if not dead already – you suppose you could always go check for sure, though.

You think it over. Then you roll off your knees, onto your ass, and lie down on your back. You let your eyes fall shut.

This is not how you pictured spending your Saturday.

You’re not sure how long you’re like that. Long enough for your breathing to normalize, for your heart rate to slow; long enough, too, for the rush of adrenaline to wear off, for every bump and bruise you took in this fight to come into painful focus. Turns out there are quite a few of them.

So you lie there, content just to hurt for a little while. At least nothing’s trying to kill you.

Something brushes against your upper thigh, and you crack open an eye to find… a cat? It’s sitting next to you, black tail twitching, staring at you in that singularly sketchy way that cats have. You’ve never been the biggest fan.

Wait; actually, you think you know this cat. When you first started suspecting something was going on at Karkat’s house, there was that cat that always showed up at his backdoor – you nearly forgot…

You reach out a hand, using three fingers to scratch between its ears. It allows your touch for a few seconds and then slowly rotates its head, catching one of your fingers between its teeth and biting down.

 _Yeah well, same to you, pal,_ you think, dropping your hand and closing your eyes once more.

A few minutes later something else pokes you in the side, sharper this time. If it’s the fucking cat again you swear you might just throw it over the goddamn fence – you’ll fuck with PETA, see if you give a shit –

It isn’t the cat this time. It’s Karkat, squatting next to you with one arm wrapped around his knees, the other arm suspended in midair as if he were about to poke you again. He looks _young_ right now, but you’re not sure why… maybe he just doesn’t seem as guarded as usual, his expression open and unclouded, yet kind of uncertain – _earnest_ , you think, and it’s a word you used before but it fits. There’s just something that makes it hard not to smile at him.

Or maybe you’re just concussed. Who knows.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey,” he answers.

Then he hesitates, and his eyes flick up and over to his right. You follow his gaze to Kankri, who’s standing near the fallen monster but watching the two of you curiously – and he’s not too subtle about it, if you’re being honest.

Karkat looks at you again, and the uncertainty in his eyes grows, and the only thing you don’t want is for him to pull away, but it looks like that might be exactly where you’re heading – so you resolve to change it, extending one of your hands out to him. He eyes it questioningly, and you shrug.

“Dave Strider,” you say. “Nice to meet you.”

That is not what he was expecting and he does a poor job of masking it, just sort of staring at you in uncomprehending disbelief.

“Don’t leave me hangin’, man,” you prod, softer now.

He catches on eventually. “…Karkat,” he says, reaching out to shake your hand.

When he lets go you grin at him, as big and stupid as you can manage, and his face flushes immediately. Boy, he’s easy to fluster today.

You glance in Kankri’s direction, but it looks like he’s busying himself with the possibly dead monster-thing now, poking cautiously around it like he thinks it may spring back to life at any moment – and you can’t promise that it won’t. But honestly, whatever, he’s an adult. If it does wake up maybe he’ll kill it this time, share the labor.

You look back at Karkat and he’s frowning at you, which is not what you want to see. But all he does is point at your face and say, “You’re bleeding.”

You wipe reflexively at your cheek, and your fingers come away bright red. “You think that’s bad,” you chirp, light and unconcerned, “just wait ‘til you see my emotional wounds.”

“Oh my fucking god.”

“Seriously, dude. Cracked ribs ain’t nothin’ to hurt feelings.”

“You are unbelievable,” he mutters, standing up. You think you mighta killed the mood, but then he holds out a hand to you.

You grab it, take a deep breath, and then the two of you get you back on your feet.

“Ugh,” you groan, clutching at your chest, “y’know, when I go see my therapist I might still bring up the cracked ribs.”

“I didn’t know Rose had a long-distance x-ray machine.”

“Oh, _and_ he’s funny, ladies and gentlemen! A regular wisecracker! You should do this for a living.”

“Shut up,” he mumbles, without any heat behind it. His hand’s on your back, and he pushes you firmly towards his house. “Come inside and I’ll dig out the first aid shit.”

“Kit.”

“Don’t correct me.”

You grin at him again, but it falters when you turn to look at the monster-thing. There’s still something you sort of feel like you need to do.

“Hang on a sec,” you say to Karkat, pulling away from him. You hear him say your name behind you – he sounds concerned, but he also doesn’t try to stop you.

You arrive at the monster’s side, feeling just a touch awkward. Kankri doesn’t notice you at first, and it gives you a few moments to covertly scope him out. There’s not a lot to learn – troll, looks like Karkat, flashy red sweater – but it is odd to have him just… _here_ , for all of you to just be out in the open. You’ve wondered about him for so long that he began to take on a certain mythical gleam in your mind – and now here he is, nudging a dead monster with a stick.

He turns to you rather suddenly – or you’re just not ready for it – his eyes wide with surprise. “Oh! Sorry, am I in your way?”

“Nah, you’re good,” you say, “I was just, uh.” You gesture at the monster-thing, and Kankri blinks at you without understanding. It’s like looking at Karkat’s face with a different personality behind it, and it is so goddamn weird –

You clear your throat. “I’m – yeah, okay, I’m just gonna grab somethin’ real quick –,” You scurry over to the thing’s head, figuring the quicker you do this, the quicker this not-conversation will end. Lodged in the back of the skull is your sword, and you get a hand on it and pull – but it’s stuck in there pretty good. It doesn’t budge.

“Do you need… help…?” Kankri asks, sounding mightily conflicted about whether it’s an offer he even wants you to take him up on. You shake your head.

“Nope, thanks –,” You decide to give it a go with two hands, and – _ow, ow_. Your shoulder strongly protests that course of action; using your left arm is out. Alright, you’ve got this – you get a nice, firm grip on the handle with your right hand, put your foot on the thing’s head for leverage, and then you _pull_.

The sword comes free with an unpleasant squelch, and Kankri winces. That thick, black fluid oozes from the hole in the monster’s head, staining the grass at your feet – you guess it’s like… monster blood, or something. You take a few steps back so it doesn’t get on your shoes, watching as another stream of it drips down your blade – what’s left of your blade, that is.

You don’t think you had the chance to properly process your disappointment over your new sword’s demise. You _did_ like it, for the short span of time that it was whole and actually yours. You run your fingers along the smooth edge, not caring so much about the monster blood there. You guess you managed to do the job with it, even once it was reduced to its current state of ‘broken piece of shit’… but it’s hard to argue that it’s not just trash now.

“Was it important to you?” someone asks, and you turn to see Kankri watching you again. He has that same curious look from before – a pure curiosity, untainted by prejudice or prior judgment, like he really just wants to know what your answer is. His penchant for academia already makes sense.

“No,” you reply, and it should stop there. But instead your mouth keeps moving, and you hear yourself say, “I think it’s the last thing my dad ever gave me.”

“Forgive me for not knowing the full story, but that sounds like it could be important.”

“Not really. I don’t think he meant to give it to me at all.”

Kankri’s still watching you, evidently more curious now than before – but there’s a tug on the back of your shirt, and Karkat’s voice says, “Hey, did you get kicked in the chest, or did you get kicked in the head? Come on.”

“Karkat,” Kankri says, and there’s a note of routine disapproval in his tone, “you know I don’t like that kind of talk. It would be very insensitive if he does end up having some form of genuine mental deficit.”

Uh – “Yeah, I know,” Karkat deadpans, before you have the opportunity to comment. “Write me down as willing to take that risk.”

You turn to give him a stink eye, which he ignores in favor of towing you towards his house. Kankri calls after the two of you, stopping you once more. “Sorry, one more thing. I don’t believe I know your name?”

“Uh.” You rub your neck self-consciously. “It’s Dave. I live next door.”

“Dave,” Kankri says, testing how it sounds. “My name is Kankri. And let me just say, as I doubt Karkat will – that was a very brave thing you did today.”

“Uh.”

“Great,” Karkat says, his grip on you pure iron now, “you can kiss his ass later.”

Kankri hums, returning his attention to the probably dead monster. Karkat pulls you away without another word.

He takes you through the back door, which also has a big old hole in it – man, this fight broke a lot of shit. He doesn’t comment on it though, leading you through the kitchen, into the living room, up the stairs. You end up in a bathroom, Karkat digging through drawers and medicine cabinets, muttering about alcohol wipes and strips of gauze.

You glance in the mirror over the sink, and are somewhat nastily surprised to see a bit more red on your face than you bargained for.

“Hey Karkat,” you say, trying very hard to sound cool and casual, “how long have my shades been gone?”

Karkat pauses in his search, and you see some heat rising in his cheeks. “Yeah... I haven’t seen those all day.”

So they got knocked off sometime before your strangling. That’s fine – you are cool and casual about it. Just standing here… rethinking every interaction you’ve had today through this new lens sans lenses… all the times you and Karkat made eye contact, how he blushed when you grinned at him… how _Kankri_ looked at you…

Very cool. Very casual.

You wonder if Karkat knows he’s still frozen, hands hovering over the last pack of toothbrushes he pushed out of his way. “Well, gonna have to find those later,” you say, coolly and casually. After a slight delay he nods, rifling through the drawers again.

He pulls out quite the collection of first aid supplies in the end, lining it all up on the sink for you in neat rows, and then he says some shit about going to get some ice. You tell him you don’t need it but he runs off anyway – you think your cool, casual (oh god, those aren’t even words to you anymore) vibes might’ve freaked him out.

He’s gone for a while, and you take the time to carefully patch and clean yourself up. You pull the gash on your face together with butterfly bandages, then scrub the dry blood off your cheeks with alcohol wipes. You opt to take a look under the hood next, as it were; your chest will be mottled black and blue soon enough, but there’s not a whole lot you can do about that, nor the marks on your throat. There’s not much you can do for the shoulder, either, though you wind an elastic bandage over the area anyway – the compression restricts blood flow, which will cut down on swelling even if it’s mostly ineffective at treating pain.

There are a few other cuts and scrapes scattered about, a small piece of glass lodged in your knee and splinters in your forearm – you take care of all that, applying bandages and antibiotic ointment as necessary. By the time Karkat comes back you’re just resting, sitting on the ground with your back to the bathtub, legs splayed out before you.

“Here,” he says, tossing you three sandwich bags stuffed full of ice, and –

“ _Yes_ ,” you cheer, catching the sunglasses and jamming them onto your face immediately. The world gets a few shades darker, and you feel one or more parts of your anatomy finally unclench. “Mr. Vantas, my hero.”

“Please, you didn’t even know they were gone until like, two minutes ago. How do you not notice that? At no point did you think, hey, why am I not half-blind like god damn usual?”

“There was a lot going on, dude, gimme a break. Heat of the moment shit.” You pout a bit until he sighs and says something about not caring, closing the toilet lid and taking a seat. “Where’d you find them?”

He shrugs. “Out in your yard. Guess they fell off while you were getting your ass kicked.”

Guess so, huh. You go about positioning the makeshift icepacks on your body, placing one on your shoulder and the other two on the sorest spots of your chest. Karkat watches you work, and when you lean back against tub he points at your face.

“You should stitch that up for real.”

It’s your turn to shrug. “That hurts like a fuckin’ bitch, man. This’ll work fine.”

“It’ll scar.”

It won’t, but that’s a conversation for another day. “My beauty is more than skin-deep, Karkat.”

He snorts, and you smile a bit.

You sit together in silence for a couple of minutes. He twiddles his thumbs, restless, and your smile starts to fade.

“So,” he finally says, just like you knew he would, “you said… that thing… it was in your brother’s room?”

“Bro,” you say, softly. You wonder if he ever noticed the room with the closed door before. If he did, he never said anything about it.

“And you told Kankri… your dad gave you that sword.”

“Sort of not what I said, if you were eavesdropping carefully.”

“Dave,” he says, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. He sounds exhausted. “I know, okay. I know what a fucking hypocrite this makes me. I get it. But can you… _please_ , just tell me what the fuck is going on.”

There are a lot of things you could say to that. Nothing, to start with, or that it’s none of his business, or that it’s a new chapter in an old story you thought you’d long since finished. Instead, you say, “There was no brother, and there was no dad. There was just Bro, and he left. Today I went in his old room for the first time in a long time – found a sword, found a monster. And now there’s nothing. Pretty simple.”

“Why would that thing be in his old room?”

“Dunno. Feel free to ask him if you see him.”

He bites his lip at that, and you think he’s resisting the urge to snap back at you. It’s some fairly remarkable self-control for him, and in recognition of that you try to reel yourself back in too.

“The first time I came to your house –,” broke into your house, but fine, “– you said your guardian was gone. On business.”

“Yeah, I see how cultural context might make that confusing. That’s actually universal human code for childhood abandonment, as it turns out. Probably should’ve realized it’d be harder for trolls to pick up on.”

“How old were you when he left?”

“I don’t remember.” Karkat leans forward, raising a skeptical eyebrow, and you shrug. “I wasn’t so good with calendars back then. Ten or eleven, maybe. Twelve. I don’t know.”

“And you don’t know where he went.”

“No.”

“Would you care if you did?”

You are so glad you have your shades back. You need that barrier, that extra bit of protection. You need the security and privacy they provide, the plausible deniability. “No.”

Karkat watches you for a few moments – not like he doesn’t trust you, necessarily, more that he knows there must be more to the story. You wonder if he regrets finding the sunglasses for you, for all the reasons you’re happy to have them.

Then he leans back again, only saying, “Okay.”

“That’s it?”

“No, that is damn well not it,” he says, and though he is gruff, you don’t think he’s unusually so, “I still don’t get where that thing came from – has it literally been in your house for years? Why didn’t it try to kill you before? And I don’t know where Rose fits into this clusterfuck _at all_ – honestly Dave, I don’t know if you should be in a psych ward, or on _Jerry Springer_ , or fucking what. And it’s like every new piece of information I get only makes it harder to tell.”

…Okay. “So…?”

“So, I guess I don’t need to figure it out while you’re like, bleeding on my bathroom floor, is the point I’m trying to make.” He sits up and crosses his arms over his chest, suddenly looking a bit embarrassed. You don’t know why he’d feel that way right now. He doesn’t quite make eye contact (or eye-to-shades contact, technically) when he says, “The last thing is, just… are you okay?”

That’s one that you… actually weren’t expecting. “Yeah. I’m fine,” you say, tilting your head to the side a little. The icepack on your shoulder rattles with the motion.

“Would you tell me if you weren’t?” His voice is so low you can barely hear him.

“If you wanted me to,” you say, and you think it surprises you almost as much as it surprises him. He’s looking straight at your shades now, expression vacillating between emotions you can’t name. He gets up and crosses the room to reach you, and you try not to think about how your pulse quickens when he sits down next to you, or the swell of _something_ in your chest when he carefully takes your hand in his, something that aches far more deeply than the imminent bruising.

“I want you to,” he says, after a long moment.

You don’t know what to say – wouldn’t trust yourself to say it even if you did. You just squeeze his hand and hope that it’s enough.

\--

When all is said and done, the two of you sit on Karkat’s bathroom floor for about an hour. There’s no further conversation, and for that you are thankful. You’re thankful for a lot of things, foremost among them the warm weight of Karkat at your side, the roughness of his hand in yours.

It comes to an end when Kankri knocks on the door – he’s tentative, a trait he and Karkat surely do not share. Karkat picks himself up, opening the door and greeting Kankri with a curt, “What.”

Kankri glances between the two of you, that same curious look on his face, “Is everything alright in here?”

“It’s fine.”

“Oh. Good.” Kankri looks at you again, clearly unsure who he should be addressing. “I was wondering if Dave might be interested in staying for dinner. It seems like the least we could do, considering,” he says, gesturing at you vaguely. He’s probably referring to all the bandages and icepacks.

You open your mouth to say, oh, thanks very much, but I think I’ll pass – but Karkat beats you to the punch. “Yeah. He’ll stay.”

“I will?”

“Yeah, you will,” he says, and neither his tone nor his expression brook any argument.

“Okay, then. I’m happy to hear it.” Kankri spares you one last glance, before turning back to Karkat. “It should be ready in another hour or so,” he says, before departing from the doorway.

Karkat faces you again, and you wait for some kind of explanation on this about-face. First he doesn’t want you and Kankri anywhere near each other, and now… all he says, though, is, “I don’t know why we’re sitting in a fucking bathroom. Let’s go to my room.”

“Okay,” you say, pushing to your feet.

You stand there and look at him, long enough for him to ask, “What?”

…You shrug. “Nothin’,” you say. “Lead the way.” He leaves the room, and you follow close behind.

This is becoming a habit, you think. _Karkat_ is becoming a habit.

It’s not one you have any interest in breaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well i am sorry for the wait, but since im dropping 10k today i think we're square lol. i like longer chapters but i ALSO kind of hate them, in the sense that i was emotionally ready to post 3 weeks ago... and i still had half the chapter to go. anyway im gonna go relax now... rejoin the world... see black panther, feel the sun on my face, etc.
> 
> i will see you lovely people next chapter :) (or in the comments WINK WINK NUDGE NUDGE MAXIMUM SUBTLETY ACHIEVED)


	7. Chapter 7

carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling  tentacleTherapist [TT]

CG: ATTENTION ROSE STRIDER.  
CG: I FEEL THE NEED TO PREFACE THIS LITTLE CHAT BY PLAINLY STATING THAT I HAVE NO ACTUAL DESIRE TO SPEAK WITH YOU, AND THAT THE MERE ACT OF STARTING THIS CONVERSATION HAS ALREADY INFLAMED MY BILE DUCTS TO SUCH A SEVERE DEGREE THAT I AM VOMITING A PUTRID MIXTURE OF THIS MORNING'S GRUBMEAL AND MY OWN BLOOD ONTO THE KEYBOARD BEFORE ME AS I TYPE THIS.  
CG: PICTURE MY ENTHUSIASM FOR THIS MOMENT THE WAY YOU MIGHT ALSO PICTURE MY ENTHUSIASM FOR MY OWN CASTRATION, IN THIS CASE LOVINGLY PERFORMED BY A RABID POSSUM WIELDING A DULL STEAK KNIFE.  
CG: I'M JUST PUTTING THAT ALL OUT IN THE OPEN NOW, WHERE IT CAN PROPERLY ROT IN THE SUNLIGHT BETWEEN US.  
TT: Lalonde.  
CG: WHAT?  
TT: My name.  
CG: OH.  
CG: OK, LALONDE STRIDER. NEVERTHELESS.  
TT: Goodness.  
TT: And consider your feelings on this interaction made perfectly clear.  
TT: It does raise the rather fascinating question of what might drive you to overcome such vivid animus, though. Made no less interesting by the fact that I don't believe we've spoken before.  
CG: WE HAVEN'T  
CG: AND WE WEREN'T GOING TO  
CG: IT'S JUST WILDLY STUPID CIRCUMSTANCES FORCING MY HAND.  
TT: Circumstances?  
CG: YOUR DIPSHIT BROTHER.  
TT: Ah.  
TT: I've actually been developing an FAQ page for this precise situation. It's still in beta, but I could dig into the notes if you wish - tell me, are you a potential suitor, or has he played the role of the aggressor in this instance?  
CG: UH.  
TT: Have there been any conversations centered around flashstep ventriloquism yet, and if so, how many?  
CG: NO I  
CG: WHAT THE FUCK?  
CG: I'M TALKING ABOUT DAVE.  
TT: You must have me confused with someone else after all.  
CG: WHAT A CONVINCING LOAD OF UTTER HORSESHIT THAT IS!  
CG: IF OF COURSE BY "CONVINCING" I MEANT THAT I KNOW FOR A FACT THAT YOU'RE FULL OF IT AND FOR GOD'S SAKE PLEASE STOP WASTING YOUR TIME AND EMBARRASSING THE BOTH OF US.  
CG: HE TOLD ME YOUR HANDLE SO YOU CAN JUST GIVE IT A REST.  
TT: Wait.  
TT: Is this,  
TT: ...Karkat?  
CG: UGH  
CG: THERE GOES THE GAG REFLEX AGAIN.  
CG: YES WELL DONE CAN WE MOVE THIS ALONG?  
TT: Um. Sure.  
TT: What can I... do for you?  
CG: WHAT YOU CAN DO FOR ME IS JACK FUCKING NOTHING. I'M ONLY HERE BECAUSE IF I WERE YOU, I'D WANT TO KNOW WHAT WAS GOING ON INSTEAD OF BEING LEFT ALONE IN THE DARK LIKE A SICKLY LOWBLOODED WRIGGLER.  
TT: You have a real penchant for vaguely disturbing imagery. I'm almost envious.  
TT: And you would want to know what?  
TT: Where is Dave, exactly.  
CG: HE'S RIGHT HERE. HE'S BEING A FUCKING MOPE BECAUSE I'M TELLING YOU THIS BUT HE'S FINE.  
TT: Okay.  
TT: It behooves me to say that you haven't told me very much of anything thus far.  
CG: YEAH I'M FUCKING GETTING TO IT! YOU ASK A MILLION FUCKING QUESTIONS.  
TT: Do you think you could get to it a little quicker?  
CG: OH MY GOD.  
CG: ALRIGHT FINE HERE YOU GO: SOME CRAZY FUCKING MURDERDEMON CAME CRAWLING OUT OF DAVE'S HOUSE TODAY AND TRIED TO KILL HIM. WHICH IS I GUESS WHAT YOU MIGHT REASONABLY EXPECT A CRAZY FUCKING MURDERDEMON TO DO WHEN IT COMES CRAWLING OUT OF PRETTY MUCH ANYWHERE.  
TT: Is he okay?  
CG: YOU ASKED A DIFFERENT VERSION OF THAT SAME QUESTION LIKE TWO SECONDS AGO AND I ALREADY SAID HE'S FINE.  
TT: Deepest apologies for the redundancy of my familial concern.  
CG: CHRIST.  
CG: WELL LALONDE I'M HAVING PURE BUCKETS OF FUN WITH YOU AND I HATE TO CUT THIS SHORT.  
CG: BUT I THINK I'VE MORE THAN FULFILLED MY OBLIGATION HERE SO I NOW BID YOU A BITTER AND *FINAL* FUCKING FAREWELL.  
TT: Hey, hold on.  
TT: Your obligation?  
CG: I ALREADY WENT OVER THIS TOO. IF I HAD A BROTHER AND SOME MONSTER TRIED TO EAT HIM I'D WANT TO KNOW. IT'S NOT THAT FUCKING COMPLICATED.  
TT: I suppose not. But knowing Dave it couldn't have been easy to convince him such a step was necessary.  
TT: And you know him quite well at this point, don't you.  
CG: HE WARNED ME ABOUT THIS YOU KNOW.  
TT: ?  
CG: YOUR WHOLE JUNIOR HEADSHRINKER SHTICK. I'M NOT INTERESTED.  
TT: Sigh.  
TT: Did he also warn you that any and all attempts to thwart me will only ever prove to be stopgap measures at best, and that any success you may perceive in those attempts are both illusory and temporary, so you might as well just tell me what I want to know?  
CG: OH SO YOU'RE JUST  
CG: AN ACTUAL REAL LIFE PSYCHOPATH THEN  
CG: DISGUISING YOUR TRUE ORIENTATION IN FLOWERY LANGUAGE AND GENERAL VAGUESPEAK.  
CG: THAT'S WHAT I'M GETTING FROM THIS.  
TT: Careful, that kind of assertion comes dangerously close to encroaching on my junior headshrinking territory. Who knows how I may react once cornered.  
CG: HOLY SHIT  
TT: Before we stray too far afield, I want to circle back around to this so-called murderdemon. You say it came out of Dave's house?  
CG: IT WAS IN HIS DAD'S ROOM APPARENTLY.  
CG: OR  
CG: I GUESS  
CG: YOUR DAD'S ROOM?  
CG: THIS FAMILY STRUCTURE HONESTLY MAKES NO GODDAMN SENSE TO ME.  
CG: ...HELLO?  
TT: Give him the computer.  
CG: WHAT?  
TT: Dave. I want to talk to him. Now.  
CG: YEAH  
CG: I DON'T KNOW IF HE'S FEELING TOTALLY AMENABLE TO THAT REQUEST RIGHT NOW.  
CG: LIKE TRUST ME I TRIED FOR 45 MINUTES TO GET HIM TO DO THIS HIMSELF, HE'S JUST BEING A GIANT FUCKING HUMAN FETUS ABOUT IT. I'M SURE YOU KNOW WHAT THAT'S LIKE.  
TT: Two things.  
TT: First, your assumption is wrong. I don't know what that's like. In fact, I don't know what most things about Dave are like. I haven't seen him in... oh, let's call it thirteen years.  
CG: WHAT  
CG: REALLY??  
TT: I'm not done.  
TT: Second, you seem to be operating under the impression that I've asked you to give him the computer. That I've posed this command in the form of a 'request'. This, too, is incorrect.  
TT: I am telling you - demanding, ordering; take your pick, really -  
TT: Give him the fucking computer.  
CG: WOW OKAY REAR ADMIRAL PUSHYBULGE CALM YOUR ASS DOWN!!!!  
CG: I'LL GIVE IT TO HIM MY GOD.  
TT: Your cooperation is warmly appreciated.  
CG: YEAH I FUCKING BET IT IS.  
TT: ...  
CG: ALRIGHT LIKE I SAID HE'S A LITTLE BUSY BEING A COMPLETE WIGGLER RIGHT NOW. HE SAYS HE'LL TALK TO YOU LATER.  
CG: SO I DON'T KNOW, WANT ME TO THROW THE HUSKTOP AT HIS FACE ANYWAY? WOULD THAT SATISFY YOU? I AM STANDING BY AND EAGERLY AWAITING MY NEXT ORDERS HERE!  
TT: No.  
TT: That won't be necessary.  
TT: I'll settle for you telling me where you are instead.  
CG: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT  
TT: An address. Latitude and longitude coordinates. I'm not too picky about the details.  
CG: EXCUSE THE FUCK OUT OF ME FOR ASKING BUT WHY DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHERE I AM  
TT: I don't want to know where you are. I want to know where Dave is.  
CG: YOU DON'T ALREADY KNOW?  
TT: No.  
CG: AND YOU EXPECT ME TO JUST COME OUT AND TELL YOU.  
TT: Yes.  
CG: WHY IN THE TAINTCHAFING FUCK WOULD I EVER DO THAT  
TT: You know my brother. You've already disclosed some sense of personal obligation towards him. You must care about him to some extent.  
TT: Don't you find it odd that he's on his own when he has family who also care about him? Who are worried about him?  
CG: WE SHOULDN'T BE HAVING THIS CONVERSATION.  
TT: Why not? You started this conversation.  
TT: I think you're worried about him, too.  
CG: IF HE WANTED YOU TO KNOW HE WOULD'VE TOLD YOU HIMSELF.  
TT: He's difficult, Karkat. He's reluctant to do things that are good for him. Sometimes it's up to others to give him the push he needs. I know you agree with me on some level, we wouldn't be speaking today if you didn't.  
CG: IT WASN'T LIKE THAT  
CG: I MADE SURE HE WAS OKAY WITH THIS FIRST  
TT: He wasn't okay with it at the outset, was he? But you talked him into it, or otherwise pressured him to the point where he'd give in to you, because you knew it was the right thing to do. You wanted to help him, and you forced him to accept that. And accept it he did. Eventually.  
TT: This situation is the same. I'm only asking you to follow through on a choice you've already made.  
CG: NO  
CG: THIS ISN'T THE SAME  
CG: AND IT DOESN'T FEEL RIGHT  
CG: I AM NOT GOING TO DO THIS.  
TT: Fine.  
CG: OKAY.  
CG: GOOD.  
CG: NOT GONNA LIE THAT WAS SUPER UNCOMFORTABLE FOR ME SO I'M GLAD WE WERE ABLE TO SETTLE IT LIKE ADULTS.  
TT: Settle it? Oh, I'm afraid not.  
CG: WHAT THE FUCK?????  
TT: You've defied me, as is the right afforded to you via the ill-conceived notion of autonomous personhood.  
TT: I now feel compelled to blow up your computer, in order that you may fully appreciate who you're dealing with as we move forward.  
CG: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!  
CG: OH MAN I'VE BEEN SO WRONG ABOUT YOU THIS ENTIRE TIME.  
CG: HERE I THOUGHT WE WERE TWO RELATIVELY SERIOUS PEOPLE ENGAGED IN A NEARLY SERIOUS DISCUSSION.  
CG: WHEN THE TRUTH IS YOU'RE ACTUALLY INSANE AND JUST KIND OF PATHETIC!  
CG: I DON'T KNOW IF I'M DISAPPOINTED OR IMPRESSED. PROBABLY SHOULDN'T BE SURPRISED!  
TT: Quite.  
TT: I'll just wait for you to take a moment from your gloating to realize that your cooling fans are loudly overexerting themselves, because your motherboard is overheating.  
TT: Because I'm about to blow it up.  
CG: HAHAHAHA  
CG: ...WAIT.  
TT: Is your keyboard hot to the touch yet? I guess it won't be long now.  
CG: WHAT EXACTLY THE FUCK  
CG: WHAT ARE YOU SOME KIND OF HACKER, THIS IS SO CHEAP.  
CG: "OOH LOOK I CAN MAKE THE FANS SPIN FASTER" GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.  
TT: No hacking, my friend. You'll have to look elsewhere in the family for that particular skill set.  
TT: Also, you'll want to take cover soon. I'd hate to maim you to prove a point.  
CG: THIS IS BULLSHIT  
TT: Here, I'll give you a helpful countdown. Detonation will occur at 'zero'.  
TT: Five.  
TT: Four.  
CG: WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT SOUND  
CG: YOU'RE NOT ACTUALLY DOING THIS  
TT: I'm sure you're right. I wouldn't worry about it.  
TT: Three.  
CG: OH MY GOD  
TT: Two.  
CG: YOU'RE FUCKING CRAZY!!!!  
TT: One.

carcinoGeneticist [CG] blocked  tentacleTherapist [TT]

\-- 

Karkat slams his laptop shut with a sharp intake of breath. He looks like he has half a mind to leap out of his seat and make a run for it.

“That’s what you get for snitchin’,” you grumble uncharitably – but like, whatever. He did just tattle on you to your goddamn twin. You’re not in the most generous mood.

“Oh, shut up,” he replies as a matter of routine, nervously eyeing the laptop. “You don’t even know what she said.”

“Bet she threatened to blow your computer up.”

Now he turns to you, expression clouded with a mixture of suspicion and surprise. “How did you know –,”

You interrupt him with a burst of laughter, and he scowls. “Come on dude, that’s like the number one elementary-level shit she pulls on amateur chumps every other day. You fallin’ for that is gonna make me look bad.”

He’s still scowling. “You couldn’t have given me a heads up?”

You respond with a shrug. “You said you had it under control, you were gonna talk to her, all I had to do was sit back and watch how masterfully you were gonna handle it –,”

“Alright! You’ve made you point!”

You lean against the wall at your back, allowing a satisfied grin to spread across your face. One of the homemade icepacks slides off your shoulder, landing with a soft _plop_ beside you, but you elect to leave it where it is – most of the ice has melted by this point anyway.

You’re sitting on Karkat’s bed, while he occupies a chair stationed at a desk a few feet away. You’ve spent most of the past hour or so seated right here, using the majority of that time to fend off Karkat’s relentless insistence that you let Rose know what happened today. Personally you don’t know what the hell Rose has to do with this, having literally no reason to care about any of it – every time you made that point, though, you could practically see the steam billowing out of Karkat’s ears, and he’d proceed to accuse you of being intentionally obtuse on the matter.

Of course, he employed far more colorful language and punctuated his spiel with the occasional rude hand gesture, but that was about the gist of it. Eventually you mumbled something like ‘if you feel so goddamn strongly why don’t you go tell her yourself’ just to get him to shut up for a minute.

Which is exactly what he ended up doing.

…Telling Rose himself, that is. Just to be clear, you’re still very much working on the shutting up part.

“I guess you’re right,” Karkat says, at a volume approaching a mutter. “The thing is, it’s like I knew she was full of shit the entire time – but she managed to totally freak me out anyway? I think she just got… under my skin, or in my head or something.”

“She does that,” you deadpan. “You don’t have to feel too bad about it though. She may not have been as full of shit as you think.”

He blinks at you – slowly, but you wouldn’t quite call it calmly. “You mean… it would’ve actually exploded.”

“I dunno. Maybe.”

Another blink. “How?”

“I dunno,” you say again. “She has methods. Ways. Communion with occult forces or something like that.”

“Well – what the fuck! Why are you giving me shit about falling for it then!”

“I mean, whether she’s serious or not doesn’t change the fact that you still fell for it. Gotta learn to sit there and take your possible laptop explosions like a man, dude.”

He gapes at you for several moments before saying, “No. No way. You’re fucking with me.”

“Probably.”

Karkat drops his head into his hands, massaging circles into his forehead with his fingertips. “I don’t know how I manage to deal with you every day. You are like… a full-time fucking job, you know that?”

You hum in sympathetic agreement. “The yoke of capitalism is heavy indeed. I come with a pretty sweet benefit package, though,” you say, waggling your eyebrows suggestively.

He doesn’t even blush this time, just raising his head high enough to give you a look that’s one part exasperation and two parts exhaustion. You keep the eyebrow thing going because quitters never win.

“Any interest in going out on the roof so I can push you off it again?”

“Nah.”

“Figures,” he says. Then, when your brows fail to cease bouncing all over your face, he snaps, “Oh my god, will you knock it the fuck off?”

You do, but only because you’ve said no to him once already this conversation. He pushes his chair away from the desk, turning to give you what you think is a Karkat version of a contemplative look. You’re not sure how comfortable you are with that, so you let your eyes sweep across his room again in order to distract you. It’s pretty much the same as you remember from your first brief sojourn inside – you recognize a few more of the book and movie titles stacked on his shelves this time, since quite a number of them have made appearances in your own home in the past couple of months. You end up taking a nice long look at that one John Cusack poster you noticed the last time you were here.

“ _Grosse Pointe Blank_ , dude? Really?”

“I like that one,” he answers mildly.

“I figured you more for like, _One Crazy Summer_ or _Serendipity_ or something.”

“I like those too.”

Of course. “Right,” you say. “Y’know, whatever. As long as you’re not fucking beatin’ your meat to _Con Air_ all the time, I guess I can tolerate –,”

“Dave,” Karkat interrupts, and even that comes off mild for him – less like he’s trying to get you to shut your mouth, more that he knows you aren’t saying anything important and has therefore decided to simply start speaking himself. That’s probably fair.

He leans forward, and there’s this look in his eye – it’s curious, but it’s kind of serious too, and your stomach twists in uneasy knots at the thought of what else he and Rose might have covered in their maiden chat together –

“Karkat,” a voice echoes up the stairs, “food’s done!” Yes! Saved by the dinner bell, thank you very much Kankri, you sincerely don’t mind if you do.

Or, uh.

Oh darn, looks like this potentially super serious conversation’s gonna have to wait ‘til later, gosh what a shame.

“Well, you heard the man,” you chirp, popping off the bed with probably a bit too much pep in your step, which you immediately regret when every region of your body responds with some ache or pain in kind. You wince slightly, but you’re determined to keep up the chipper attitude. “Better hop to it!”

Karkat’s wearing a particularly resentful look on his face, and while it’s impossible to say whether it’s directed more at Kankri or yourself, if you had to wager on it you’d most likely end up splitting responsibility right down the middle. Ultimately he exhales a frustrated sigh, rising from his seat while muttering, “Fine, let’s just get this over with.”

It’s only when you’re out in the hallway that you remember what it is he’s trying to ‘get over with’ – which is you formally meeting Kankri.

More specifically, you formally meeting Kankri for some kind of sit-down meal, which will take an absolute minimum of twenty or thirty minutes to get through, and that’s if you’re exceptionally lucky.

Even _more_ specifically, you, who have maintained a clandestine friendship with your secretive neighbor for some time now, formally meeting Kankri, who is… what, exactly? A professor at the very least, but what else? Karkat’s guardian? His roommate? His warden?

What the hell are you walking into again?

…Not that you ever knew anything about Kankri before. ‘Again’ is just like a stammering tack-on to that sentence so as to try and not sound too fucking clueless about your present circumstances – “Hey, man,” you say, aiming for light and breezy and just hoping you end up somewhere in the same zip code as the mark, “what am I supposed to, like… _do,_ here?”

“What do you mean,” Karkat tosses carelessly over his shoulder, taking the first couple of steps downstairs like he’s really not worried about anything.

“Dude,” you say with a bit more insistence, stopping him with a hand on the shoulder. “I mean, like – what am I _doing here?”_

There’s a brief pause. “Yes, because when I asked for clarification, what I _really_ meant was ‘please repeat what you just asked utilizing the exact same vocabulary and only moderately different emphasis, leading me to suddenly understand precisely what you mean when you ask me the vaguest question on earth’ –,”

Okay, who’s being intentionally dense now? “Karkat,” you start with a frown, and he rolls his eyes and interrupts you again.

“Just don’t say anything, alright, it’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” You blink. “You get how that’s not really helpful, in my case.”

“Oh my god –,”

“I’m just saying!”

“You’re _always_ ‘just saying’, that’s the literal goddamn problem –,”

“What’re you gonna do, be like ‘oh, and this is Dave, who has oddly taken a solemn vow of silence between now and the time he spoke to you a fucking hour ago’ – c’mon. It’s weird, man.”

“It’s not weird! You’re weird!”

“Karkat,” Kankri calls again – the two of you have been stage-whispering on the stairs for a minute now, and you wonder what he’s overheard, if anything – “you two alright?”

“Fine – we’re fine, be there in a second,” he yells back, before spinning to you. “Listen,” he hisses, “all I have to do is get him started on the right subject, and he’ll talk uninterrupted for six hours. You don’t have to _do_ or _say_ anything, just let me _handle_ it.”

Still sounds kinda dumb to you, but this is Karkat’s rodeo. You give a ‘whatever, dude’ shrug and he huffs, turning on his heel and stalking down the remaining steps. You have no choice but to shove your hands into your pockets and follow him.

You’re pretty sure this plan sucks.

Karkat leads you to the dining room, and you try to focus on calming the somersaults you got going on in your gut. Seriously, it’s Cirque du fuckin’ Soleil in there, coming back from the matinee and rolling right into the evening performance. Never mind that you’re supposed to start eating soon – you don’t know how you’re gonna keep anything down, and that’s _before_ you notice the spread of bizarre, clearly Alternian food that Kankri’s set out on the table.

“What is this stuff?” you ask, forgetting that you’re not supposed to say anything until Karkat turns to you with a downright homicidal look.

Whoops.

“Shoot – of course, I forgot to ask about your dietary restrictions,” Kankri says, unaware of Karkat’s reaction. He sets down a stack of plates and brings a palm to his forehead. “Forgive me, that was terribly presumptuous on my part. I know humans have quite the range of food preferences, whether by necessity or simple personal choice – vegetarian, vegan, gluten-free, raw food, Weight Watchers – it’s a charming little thing about your species, really, all the different ways that you find to express your individuality. I can’t say we have human visitors here all too often, but there’s just no excuse for overlooking such things, I do apologize –,”

Whoa, okay. “No, man, it’s cool,” you say, holding your hands out in a placating manner. “I’m like… the guest in your house, whatever you’re havin’ is fine. I just, uh. Don’t know that much about troll food, I guess?”

Kankri nods, pushing a pair of plates across the table along with two sets of silverware, then taking his own seat. “Well, it’s very kind of you to forgive my embarrassing faux pas – I’ll admit I still have some work to do when it comes to unlearning my own regrettable Alternianormative instincts. It’s good to be reminded of that sometimes, lest we become too comfortable operating in the suffocating framework of our own privilege.”

Um.

What.

Karkat shakes his head, though he doesn’t say anything as he reaches out to scoop what looks like some lumpy green mashed potatoes onto his plate. Kankri doesn’t notice that, either – he does this sort of odd thing when he talks, frequently closing his eyes and continuing to speak without actually seeing who he’s speaking to. There are probably a lot of things he misses that way.

But speaking of still speaking – “…Profess to a certain fondness for the taste of ‘home’, as it were, though of course the surface is the only home I’ve ever known. Still, I think it’s fairly normal to crave that cultural proximity, especially considering that cuisine is one of the least objectionable relics of what was and still is a highly problematic cultural footprint for trolls living abroad in general –,”

“Oh my god,” Karkat finally interjects, maybe realizing that you still have no idea what’s on the table in front of you. He points first to what appears to be the main dish, a hunk of meat-like substance that’s a bit blacker than most human fare. “Okay, uh – let’s call it troll meat loaf –,” he moves his finger counterclockwise, “– that’s troll baked beans, troll polenta –,” finally he gets to the lumpy green potatoes, “– and that’s troll mashed cauliflower.”

“I thought they looked more like mashed potatoes.”

“I mean, whatever. Same difference.”

You point at the dish that he identified as troll polenta. “And can I think of these as troll grits instead?”

“I don’t give a single fuck about you making that mental distinction or literally any other, because it’s not actually grits or polenta, it’s just a reasonable approximation for the purpose of familiarizing you with the basic idea. Which was the fucking point of this to begin with.”

“Cool,” you say, as Kankri makes a sort of throat-clearing sound that you think is meant to chide Karkat about his language. Troll grits it is.

They squabble back and forth for a couple of minutes as you fill your plate – when in a reasonable approximation of troll Rome, and whatnot. You sit back and eye the food before you; you can’t say it looks ridiculously appetizing, but it’d be rude to just like, not touch it, right? Plus Karkat eats human food with you all the time, so your palates have to be somewhat similar. How different is this from any other kind of exotic food you’ve yet to try – you mean, in France they’re all eating snails and shit, and those are human fucking beings.

…Now you can’t remember if the point of that was to talk yourself into or out of eating this stuff. Goddamn it. “Hey, is any of this made out of snails?”

They both stop in their tracks, turning to give you matching bewildered looks. “Um. No?” Karkat finally replies.

“Okay. I think that’s a good thing.” You pause, waiting for the next question to bubble up. “What about grubs, are there grubs in any of this?”

“Well, yeah. Those two,” he responds again, pointing at the imposter beans and meat loaf.

“Okay.” Everyone waits a beat. “I don’t have any frame of reference about whether that’s good or bad, actually.”

“Dude,” Karkat says, giving his forehead a tired rub. You grin because you always think it’s funny when he ‘dudes’ you. “You really overblow the grub thing. It’s not whatever you’re thinking.”

“But that’s part of the problem, right? Like, I’m not thinking of anything in particular; it’s just anything that could realistically fall into the grub category gives me fuckin’ pause. And aren’t your troll babies called grubs too? Gonna be honest, that’s an unnerving little detail, man. I’m not as boned up on my lexical semantics as I should be, so I dunno if that’s a homonym or technically more of a polyseme, but it is unfortunate as hell.” You pause for a moment, a new thought occurring to you. “Unless it’s _not_ just a coincidence, and ‘grub’ literally refers to the same thing in both contexts… oh god, they’re not actually the same thing, are they?” Needless to say, you do NOT want to eat a troll infant in loaf form for dinner tonight.

Karkat groans just as Kankri interjects with a cough. That startles you – you almost forgot he was sitting there.

“Dave,” Kankri says, and there’s a terrible… _patience_ to his tone, “I hope to be as gracious as you were concerning my own error today, but it seems to me that I would be doing you a great disservice in not pointing out just how harmful the assumption you’ve put forward here is, and indeed has been to trollkind as our societies have become increasingly interwoven over time. Yes, the etymology of ‘grub’ as it pertains to the Alternian usage of the word can be a bit circuitous – likewise, the naming conventions of various objects and ideas commonly referred to as ‘grubs’ or linked to the idea of being ‘grub adjacent’, or even ‘grub kin’ in some emerging circles of thought, admittedly lend themselves to a lack of clarity and specificity on the matter. Still, this notion that the inherent violence of the troll species – a stereotype that honestly deserves some deeper examination in its own right, though I’ll digress on that matter for now – would make it not only possible but in fact _probable_ for grown trolls to regularly cannibalize the youngest among them, or even the slightly less morbid though no less damaging idea that the perceived savagery of the troll enables them to simply pluck foodstuffs from the dirt at random, rather than through the careful, cultivated means typical of any intelligent organism – and I prefer to employ the third person rather than ‘we’ in this situation in order to highlight the grotesque caricature at play here, divorced as it is from the nuance of reality and the existence of each and every troll as a fully realized, fully flawed individual –,”

“Nice going, shitbreath,” Karkat mutters, apparently far below the volume it would take for Kankri to notice. He keeps right on lecturing.

“What is happening right now,” you whisper back, in a state of some alarm.

“Like I said – six hours. Uninterrupted. If I don’t stop him at some point he will dehydrate, shrivel, and die.”

“Yikes.” Kankri _still_ has no idea that the two of you are carrying out your own conversation, which is pretty wild considering he’s about two feet away.

“This is why I told you not to say anything,” Karkat adds after a moment.

“Good thing for both of us you’re too mature for a told-you-so,” you retort, and he gives you a withering side eye. “And wasn’t your grand idea to get him rambling about some bullshit anyway? If anything, I just did your job for you. So. Y’know. You’re welcome.”

“Every time you open your mouth I am immeasurably worse off for overhearing the wailing tornado siren of incontinence that comes out –,”

Kankri clears his throat, and you both sit up straight like a couple of second graders caught passing notes in class. “Questions?” he says, cracking one eye open to give the two of you a look of restrained disapproval.

“Nope, all set,” you say, at the same time Karkat says, “Dave just wants to know whether it’s okay if he cries. I told him it was – _oof –_ fine,” he manages to finish, despite the elbow you lodge in his ribcage.

Jerk.

Karkat makes a smug little face as he conveniently ignores your glare in favor of a renewed interest in his plate. “Oh! Of course,” Kankri says, and the open eye falls shut again. “Certainly, facing one’s privileges and examining one’s triggers can be quite the emotional process – doubly so for those poor souls who are, indeed, triggered by the state of their own privilege. Please let me know if at any point you find yourself in need of a safe space in which to take a breather. As I was saying, the historical significance of the term ‘larvae’ must unquestionably inform our current understanding –,”

…Man.

You sorta miss fighting that monster right about now.

At some point you must start eating – out of nothing less than sheer goddamn boredom – because all of the sudden you find yourself looking at an empty plate without fully understanding how it got to be that way. You guess the key to trying new things is to have someone browbeating you so badly in the meantime that you don’t even realize you’re trying a new thing at all.

Really, it wasn’t all that bad. You’re actually leaning forward to grab a little more – it doesn’t look like Kankri’s wrapping up anytime soon and you’re still hungry, so what the hell – when Karkat catches your eye. He looks pointedly at your empty plate, then gives an equally pointed look to the door. The message is pretty clear – _if you’re done, let’s fucking go._

You hesitate for a moment. But no, he’s right – besides, there’s always stuff you can microwave over at your house. You pull your arm back and turn to give him the green light, only to find him watching you; pointed look replaced with an almost wistful expression.

“What?”

“I – nothing,” he whispers. He nods at the food on the table. “Go ahead.”

“If you wanna get outta here, man, that’s cool, I’ll –,”

Now he shakes his head. “No, it’s nothing. I’m being an asshole. Sorry.”

You think that’s an exaggeration, but… “You sure?”

He nods again, not looking at you anymore. Flummoxed, you nonetheless reach for more of those troll beans. When one of them slips off your plate, you grab a napkin to wipe it up – then you realize you’re wasting a perfectly good opportunity to troll your troll friend. You put the napkin down and flick the fallen food in Karkat’s direction instead.

Karkat wrinkles his nose, batting the bean off his sweater. “Wiggler,” he mutters, and punches you in the thigh.

“Ow, Karkat, my battle wounds,” you pretend to moan right before kicking him in the shin, and the two of you spend the next ten minutes testing how far you can push the impromptu wrestling match without Kankri noticing. Turns out it’s pretty far, though tragically you are forced to stop short of your ultimate goal of suplexing Karkat through the table.

Kankri _finally_ runs out of steam a bit later, which is just as well – after your second round of troll dinner, you’re stuffed.

“…And, although imperfect in many ways – and of course I’d be happy to elucidate further on those certain areas I mentioned, particularly those concerning the cull of the grub crop, not to be mistaken with other far more sinister culling practices in the ancient Alternian zeitgeist – I believe we’ve reached the logical conclusion of most good faith arguments on the matter.”

Holy shit, you actually have an opportunity to get a word in edgewise. Okay, you have to choose wisely – gotta make this count. “So – correct me if I’m wrong,” you say, very slowly, and Kankri leans toward you eagerly, “but what I _think_ you’re saying is I _didn’t_ just eat troll babies in the form of a meat loaf.”

Kankri’s face falls in the clearest sign of pure annoyance he’s displayed since you met the guy. He’s honestly never looked more like Karkat. “No,” he says, a testy edge to his voice, “there are no troll babies in the food, Dave.”

“Wow,” you say, enthusiastically setting both hands on the table before you. “Fuckin’ relief, huh?”

“Sure,” Kankri responds flatly. It’s kinda hilarious that you were nervous about this before. Now – truly, you think you might love this guy.

“Hey Karkat, ya hear the good news?” you ask, turning to him with a smile.

“Mmm,” Karkat replies, raising his eyebrows and staring very hard at the placemat in front of him. He opens his mouth, perhaps hoping to add a little more to that thought, but his lip wobbles treacherously and he ultimately shuts it again. He grins somewhat helplessly before thinking to disguise it with a shake of his head and a small cough that only partially sounds like strangled laughter. Your smile widens.

“So… Dave,” Kankri says, trying quite visibly to regain his composure. “Look at me – going the whole meal without learning a single thing about you! Not much of a chatterbox, eh?”

“Oh yeah. That’s what everyone says about me – like getting blood from a stone, that’s me and, uh. Words.”

Karkat snorts.

Kankri, for his part, nods along sagely to your every word. “Well, no time like the present to change that! Tell me about yourself.”

…Uh oh. “Not much to tell, y’know – I’m not that interesting,” you say, rubbing the back of your neck.

Karkat seems to sense that now would be a good moment for him to jump in, helpfully interjecting, “Hey Dave, want to help me clean up?”

But Kankri waves him off before you can grab hold of the conversational life preserver. “Oh, that can wait. And I’m sure that’s not true,” he says, pivoting seamlessly from Karkat back to you, “I’ve only known you for an afternoon, of course, but already you seem like a fascinating young man to me.”

“Well, that… I mean, giant monsters make anyone seem interesting. It’s not strictly ‘cuz of me or anything.”

“You’re too modest,” Kankri replies, and you see Karkat smirk. That vanishes when Kankri follows it up with, “For example, that was a very interesting mutation I believe I spotted earlier.”

Uh? “Kankri,” Karkat says, voice full of warning.

Kankri either doesn’t hear him or doesn’t pay him any mind. “I’ve never heard of a human with eyes like –,”

_“Kankri!”_ Karkat’s standing now, fists slammed on the table.

Kankri just blinks up at him, eyes wide and inquisitive. Maybe he’s too accustomed to Karkat angrily jumping out of seats to be very fazed by it. “You aren’t curious?” he asks, sounding genuinely baffled.

Karkat sidesteps the question. “You’re being a _jackass._ ”

“Am I?”

“The fuck! Yes! Throwing ‘mutation’ around like it doesn’t matter – you can’t just _say_ that shit to people, what is wrong with you –,”

There’s a flash of recognition on Kankri’s face, followed by a dramatic gasp and an extremely apologetic look. “Oh! I’ve triggered you, haven’t I? Goodness, I’m sorry Dave – see Karkat, this is why I never should have stopped asking for a comprehensive list of triggers _before_ every conversation –,”

Karkat’s starting to look like someone tucked a live grenade behind his eyes and pulled the pin about three seconds ago, so you decide to step in. “No, it’s not a trigger – it’s just, like… my face. And genetics before that, I guess. I didn’t have much of a hand in either, so… still not great for interesting table talk, mostly.” This time, the smile you give the pair of them is admittedly a bit nervy.

Kankri tilts his head, still looking at you like you’re an intriguing object for study – Karkat, on the other hand, seems eager to take control of the situation.

“Alright,” he declares, setting his hands on his hips with an air of decisiveness. Kankri sighs – you _would_ say it manages to escape Karkat’s notice, except that you _definitely_ see his left eye twitch a bit. He doesn’t let it completely derail him, though, which you find admirable. “I’m calling this before it gets any more horrible. Dave, time to go home. Kankri – you trigger the guest, you wash the dishes.”

Kankri makes a noise of protest. “He said it wasn’t –,”

Karkat waves his hands wildly in front of his face, making a sound like NANANANA until Kankri quits trying to talk over him. “The decision is final,” Karkat says gravely, and Kankri’s features pull into a pout. Based purely on how they interact with each other, you might think Karkat was the older one.

You push yourself up from the table, still rubbing your neck a bit. You guess this hasn’t been a _total_ disaster, the last few minutes notwithstanding. “Well… thanks. For, uh. Having me.”

Kankri turns a vaguely surprised look in your direction. “Of course! It’s always a treat to meet one of Karkat’s friends, I so rarely get the opportunity,” he says.

Which, you think, is an odd thing for someone to say if they truly believed you only met Karkat an hour ago.

But now Karkat’s basically on top of you, hustling you out of the room amid a verbal whirlwind of, “Great, wonderful, everyone had a fabulous time, I just can’t overstate my heartfelt fucking relief –,” so you don’t have much time to ruminate on it.

Kankri’s not quite done with you, though. “Oh, Dave, I meant to ask,” he says, and Karkat groans like a collapsing building next to you, “were you planning on doing anything with the… well. The body, I suppose you might say.”

…The body?

Oh!

The monster-thing.

Right.

“You mean, other than hauling it down to the curb on trash day? Not really.” Karkat and Kankri give you identical revolted looks. “What? You think they won’t take it? I guess you could be right… especially if it starts to rot… maybe if I rented a dumpster…?”

“I don’t… I think that’s rather beside the point,” Kankri says. He’s trying to be gentle with the latent insinuation that you’re a huge freak, and to be honest you don’t much care for it. You prefer it when people just come out and say what they mean. “I was wondering if you’d mind if I held on to it.”

“You wanna hold on to it,” you repeat, a touch incredulous.

“Yes,” Kankri says.

“The body.”

“Yes.”

…Okay, then. “I mean… sure? It’s not really _mine_ or anything but… yeah, whatever.” Kankri looks pleased with that. “You do realize only a huge freak would ever ask that, though.”

Now he looks less pleased. No one can accuse you of not practicing what you preach. “I was thinking I might know someone who could potentially identify –,” he starts to explain, but Karkat cuts him off again.

“No, that’s it, I’m putting my foot down. Kankri, enjoy your hideous monster corpse – or don’t, because who fucking cares! It’s time for this scene to end, thank you very much, goodbye!”

You’re allowed one final glimpse of Kankri’s bemused face before Karkat physically drags you from the room.

“That went well,” you say as you approach the back door. “It went well, right? I think it went well. Couple of rocky moments – here and there, y’know – but overall… yeah. Pretty well.”

Karkat’s frowning, and his eyes are distant. He’s not even listening to you. “Hey,” he says, stopping you with a palm on your chest as he opens the door. “I’m gonna go to my bedroom window in a second. Wait for me outside.”

“What, why?”

He makes an impatient sound. “Somewhere else you have to be?”

“No…”

“Then, okay. See you in a minute.” And he pushes you out the door, shutting it in your face.

You stand there for a few beats, staring at the closed door. You briefly consider ignoring him and going home anyway – you are tired as shit. It’s been a _long_ day. Then you turn, eyes falling on the body of the dead monster lying right near the patch of broken fencing between your yard and Karkat’s. It looks like a formless, three-dimensional shadow in the dusk.

You sigh, trudge around to the front porch, and wait beneath Karkat’s window.

“Dude,” you say when you hear the window open, “I think you gotta get a stopwatch. I seriously think you need to invest in some kinda industrial time-telling device, because I _hear_ you say you’ll be out in a minute, and yet I’ve been sitting here with my thumb up my ass for about twenty times as long – actually, you know what, when’s your birthday? _I’ll_ get you one, that’s how much I think you need –,”

“Will you just shut the fuck up,” Karkat says, and you do, tilting your head back until your skull bumps against the porch railing. He’s peering at you over the edge of the roof, an indecipherable look on his face.

“Karkat,” you say with a sigh, “I’m fuckin’ beat – and that’s not even supposed to be a lame pun, it’s just true – and all I really wanna do is go pass out somewhere, so do ya think this can maybe wait –,”

“Stay here tonight,” he blurts, cutting you off.

“Huh?”

“Here is somewhere,” he says, talking fast. “Pass out here.”

…You mean, you won’t say the idea hasn’t crossed your mind. You’re still the guy who spent two and a half hours in a theater with him, trying to decide whether you should make a damn move – a lot’s happened between then and now, though. Thoughts of that nature have been somewhat derailed as of late, to put it mildly –

“Stop thinking whatever you’re thinking, it isn’t that,” Karkat snaps, sounding a bit more like his usual self. And… yeah, turns out you can do that. “It’s just… do you even _want_ to stay there tonight?” he asks, gesturing towards your dark and empty house.

“It’s where I live. Why wouldn’t I want to stay there.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, in that disingenuous tone that means he actually does know. “Maybe because there are things in there trying to kill you?”

You shrug. “Just the one thing.”

“That you know of.”

“Plus it wasn’t very good at killing me.”

“It _was_ good at it, I just _interrupted_ it.” Eh. You’re not so sure about that in hindsight. You _probably_ would’ve found a way out if he didn’t show up – “Dave, stop being such a dumbass and accept my gracious offer already.”

“Dude, unless you got something more permanent in mind, I have to go back sometime. Might as well face the music now.” …Wait. You accidentally conceded a point just then. “Not that there’s any music to face. It’s cool.”

Smooth.

“I’ll go with you,” Karkat says, abruptly changing tack. He’s talking pretty fast again. “Tomorrow, or whenever you feel… just, whenever. We can make sure there’s nothing else that wants to crush your windpipe or make a wreath out of your entrails or jerk off into your vacant skull – you know, the usual.”

“You think _you’re_ gonna make the difference there, huh.”

“Better than going alone!”

You’re not entirely convinced. You shut your eyes, resting your head against the railing. “It’s really not necessary.”

“I’m glad you’re so sure. Stay here anyway.”

He’s not gonna drop this, is he. You keep your eyes closed – fuck it, you think, you’ll just stay right in this fuckin’ spot tonight. That’s called a _compromise,_ motherfuckers; that’s how you get shit _done_ in the real world. Send your ass to Congress; let ‘em know you’re changing the whole fucking game –

“You know I can’t hear anything you say when you just fucking mumble to yourself.”

Ah, fuck. “I know,” you say. “That was completely intentional, by the way.”

“I’m sorry, was I supposed to think that it _wasn’t_ intentional at any point?”

Now would be a good time for a subject change. “So, what – you want me to just come back inside. Front door or back,” you ask, feeling like you already know what the answer’s going to be. You open your eyes in time to catch Karkat mid-grimace.

“Can’t you come up this way?” he counters, and you shake your head.

“Always with the secrecy, bro. I’m starting to think you do it for the drama.”

“I just don’t want him knowing my business all the time! It can’t be that hard to understand.”

“Drama,” you repeat, though you only half mean it. Your opinion of Kankri has shifted tonight, definitively in the direction of ‘mostly harmless nerd’ – still, you think you see how his version of guardianship might get a little… overbearing.

Especially for someone as prickly as Karkat.

He huffs, and you move to cut off whatever stream of invective is about to come flooding out. “Fine, dude – but you gotta help me up. My shoulder is not gonna abide that kinda activity tonight,” you say, rotating your left arm and wincing at the resulting throb of pain.

“…Oh. Okay. Um, sure.” It is really a skill of his to ride your ass so insistently about something, and then _immediately_ act surprised when you finally give in to him.

You stand, joints creaking, and maneuver your way on top of the porch railing. You raise your right hand and Karkat snags it, and after a couple of false starts and a few more muttered curses, he successfully hauls you up to the roof. He seems somewhat flustered once you’re up there, but you’re too exhausted to talk it out right now. You _boop_ him lightly on the nose, which sends him into a wordless fit of outrage, then take advantage of his distraction to crawl through the window and faceplant onto his bed.

“Sorry, sh’d’ve asked,” you say when you hear the window close, your face mashed into a pillow, “I can move t’ the floor…”

“You’re fine,” he grumbles. It’s probably rude of you not to contest that more, but hell – you’re comfy. “I’m not going to bed anytime soon.”

“Th’nks,” you mumble, adjusting your grip on the pillow. You’re going down like the _Titanic;_ your mind already feels mushy with sleep, and your full stomach isn’t helping matters. The aching and soreness across your body seems to fade with each passing moment as you melt into the mattress.

“No problem, Dave,” Karkat responds, and it doesn’t seem quite so grumbly to you this time.

You drift off a minute later. You don't dream at all.

\--

“I’m telling you, you don’t need that shit.”

“You’ve got a fucking sword, and I’m supposed to go in barehanded? Fuck that! If anything, I’m underprepared!”

“First of all, it’s half a sword. And I only have that because you look like a fucking gladiator going to fight the lions for the amusement of the bourgeoisie. Or, whatever the ancient Roman term for bourgeoisie was – your Julius Caesar’s and Pontius Pilate’s and whatnot. I’m just saying, you’re making me anxious,” you finish, when the sounds that signify he’s trying to interrupt you begin to reach critical mass.

“Difference between you and me is I don’t need anyone to make _me_ anxious,” Karkat mutters, adjusting the batting helmet perched somewhat awkwardly on his head. His horns are small enough that the helmet still kind of fits… but only kind of. He’s got a catcher’s chest protector on as well, strapped over his usual black sweater, and he’s holding a wooden stick in his hands – that looks more like a discarded broom handle than an actual bat, though.

“You don’t have to come if you’re scared,” you remind him.

“Fuck off.”

Well then. Can’t say you didn’t give him the option. “I don’t get it. You and Kankri don’t strike me as baseball types,” you say, referring to the protective gear.

“I don’t know, I think it’s from some sociological research thing. It’s been in the basement forever,” Karkat replies. That doesn’t make sense, but whatever. You don’t actually care. “Are we doing this or not?”

You shrug. “Sure. Where doing it man.” Karkat scowls at you, but you preclude any further discussion on the matter by opening the front door to your house.

You don't move as the door slowly thuds to a stop, which you think is kind of ridiculous. This is your house, and you’ve walked into and out of it a million goddamn times – ugh, Karkat’s all in your head, making you paranoid. Everything’s fine.

Fine, fine, fine, fine –

“See?” You saunter inside, spinning around to face Karkat out on the front porch. “Totally fine, completely normal.”

“Mmph,” Karkat grunts, but the step he takes inside is cautious. “Inclined as I am to trust your neanderthalic judgment and rely solely on your blind intuition – let’s just look around, okay.”

You spend the next ten minutes poking around the first floor, finding – predictably – nothing out of the ordinary. You make sure to point this out to Karkat as obnoxiously as possible, which you’re certain he appreciates. In turn, he helpfully reminds you that you haven’t gone upstairs yet, noting, “Still plenty of time for something to jump out and try to murder us both, you snide dickhead.”

“Well with friends like you, who needs surprise homicide monsters,” you quip, and he thwacks you in the arm with the broom handle.

You approach the stairs with confidence, hoping that by outwardly projecting poise, it will escape Karkat’s notice that your anxiety’s increasing with every step. You really _don’t_ think there’s anything that will attack you in here (…anymore), but what can you say – old instincts die hard, and the specter of Bro’s room always made you nervous to begin with.

That all said, you nearly shit yourself when you hear the sound of some unknown racket coming down the hallway, turning to see a dark shape hurtling towards you.

“Holy _fuck_ –,” Your back hits plaster and you raise your broken sword defensively, Karkat squawking on the step below you and wildly waving his wooden stick around – only for a crow to land on the handrail at the top of the stairs, ruffling its feathers indignantly like _you’re_ the one causing the disturbance here. It cocks its head to the left, then the right, peering at you out of one beady black eye at a time.

For a moment, the three of you are absolutely still. Finally the crow turns its head to face you straight on, releasing a single, abrasive _caw_.

You lower your sword a few inches, taking one hand off the grip to swat at the bird. “Fuck off.”

Its caws once more, unimpressed by your greeting, and flies back down the length of the hall.

Karkat slumps against the wall, pressing a hand to his chest. “Oh my god. I should go change my underwear.”

“Gross,” you say, because he doesn’t know what you were thinking thirty seconds ago. You take a deep, steadying breath while he presumably tries to slow his heart rate.

“Completely normal!” he snaps a few seconds later.

“More normal than you’d think.” He gives you a dubious look, and you shrug your shoulders. “C’mon.” You finish climbing the stairs without further incident. Karkat hesitates, readjusts his helmet, and follows you.

You decide not to waste any more time and head right for the room at the end of the hall. Honestly, at this point, why kid yourself. If there’s any trouble left in this house, it’s gonna come from in there.

The door’s wide open, just as you left it yesterday. The room’s brighter than before, though – courtesy of a Dave-shaped hole through one of the windows, thanks a fuckin’ ton. The extra light allows you to instantly notice one significant difference in the makeup of the room.

“Oh, what the fuck,” you groan, allowing your sword-wielding hand to fall to your side, your other hand dragging itself down the length of your face.

“Huh?” Karkat appears at your shoulder, peering cautiously into the bedroom. His eyebrows lift in immediate shock.

The room is fucking _lousy_ with crows.

You count at least a dozen of them, most of them watching you and loudly voicing their displeasure with your presence. They must’ve flown in through the broken goddamn window – how the fuck do they _know_ , though, does one of them just constantly scout the place for opportunities, all flying back and forth, giving the whole flock the green light when the coast is clear? No – not a flock, it’s a _murder_ ; a literal goddamn murder of crows acting like your house is some rustic, five-star Airbnb for shitty fucking feathery assholes.

“Little fuckin’ _nightmares_ ,” you seethe, swatting ineffectually at the nearest crow – it flutters from the arm of the futon over to the dresser, screaming at you the whole way for your trouble. “How do they manage to shit fucking _everywhere_ so goddamn fast, it’s barely been twenty-four hours!”

“Uh. I don’t know?”

“’Cuz they’re useless flying shit machines, that’s how,” you say, happy to answer your own question. You take a lazy swipe at another one, which evades you as easily and loudly as the first. “Y’know, people talk about crow intelligence all the time, and I guess I believe it – but only insofar as they manage to be _slightly_ less idiotic than every other species of spectacular feathery idiot out there, and _only_ so they can use their slightly above average non-idiocy to be a humongous pain in my ass. It is their sole fucking evolutionary purpose.”

“What, so – this is like, some kind of established thing. You and the… crows.”

“Dude, you have no _fucking_ idea.”

“Apparently not.” He blinks a few times at the big hole in the window, eventually turning to aim a nonplussed look at the crow closest to him. It caws, and he recoils. “So are you going to kill them, or…?”

“What the fuck. Do I look like some kind of psycho to you?”

“Yes.” Should’ve seen that coming. “It just seems prudent, if you want to get rid of them so bad.”

“No, dude, I’m not going fucking Hitchcock on the birds.” You stop to think for a moment. “Although technically I guess it’d be more Hitchcock if they turned on _me_ –,”

“You know we’re running pretty long here and don’t really have time for this bullshit, right.”

Ugh. “Okay, you know what –,” You march over to the sole closet in the room and reach for the door handle. Karkat makes a wordless sound of alarm behind you, but you fail to take heed of his concerns, pulling the door open resolutely.

It’s…

Honestly…

It’s just a ton of fucking porn.

You avert your eyes from titles such as _Bottom on a Hot Tin Roof_ and _Mister Geppetto’s Marionette Slave Dungeon_ (you mean… Jesus fucking Christ), slamming the door shut again. “Nope, we’re done here.”

“What? What’s in there?”

“Nothing that’ll kill me.” It might kill you if you watch it – or make you want to kill yourself – but since you have no intention of doing so –, “Let’s bounce.”

“Hey, wait –,” Karkat comes scrambling after you as you walk right out of the bedroom, “What about the birds?”

“Fuck it,” you say, shutting the door to the room as well, “let ‘em have it. Not like I’ve been getting any use out of that room. Maybe it’ll keep ‘em outta my grill.”

“Yeah,” Karkat says, clearly doubtful, “because when you cede space to an invasive species, usually that’s the end of it. They are forever sated, never once making a play for more territory, or anything like that.”

You shrug. “Well, you’d know better than me.”

It takes him a second to get it. “Hey!” he eventually protests, clenching his fists and stomping his foot impotently. “That’s real funny, you goddamn – trollphobe!”

He’s kind of adorable, standing there all pissed off at you in his serious sports gear. “Right,” you say, taking a step closer to him and poking him in the forehead. He makes a pouty face and rubs at the spot, which regrettably only increases his adorableness attribute. “Sorry Kankri, that _was_ problematic of me –,”

_“HEY!”_

And that’s about the end of it. You and Karkat declare your house officially evil monster-free – once you’re done winding him up with stuffy relative comparisons, of course – and quickly settle back into the old routine. It’s a little different, now that Kankri knows about you; but honestly, at first it’s not as different as you thought it might be. Mostly it just means Karkat occasionally bringing a tin of leftovers with him when he shows up in your living room.

Part of that is probably Karkat continuing to keep the extent of your rendezvous-ing on the down low – “for the drama of it all,” you tease, and he pauses _Can’t Buy Me Love_ for an hour to tell you why you’re wrong – but you really don’t mind it. You _like_ the routine. You weren’t looking to change it anyway.

It does change, though. It just takes a little over a week for it to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blah blah blah excuses for posting late I AM TOO TIRED FOR THESE NOTES


End file.
